Childe of Passion
by StarGazers
Summary: AU. A story of the first Childe of Sebastian LaCroix, their interactions and what it takes to raise yourself and a Childe up in the machinations of the Kindred world. More than likely, sporadic updates unless otherwise inspired or threatened. Rated T for suggestive language and innuendo.
1. Hair

A/N: I will put a fair warning that this story has an AU explanation of Sebastian LaCroix's background. I will also warn there is (probably) a ludicrous amount of French history in the 2nd and 3rd chapters. I love European History, so it was fun for me to write and read but may be boring to others. If History is not your thing, I would skim or jump to chapter 4. You may miss LaCroix's embrace, but it is minor compared to the intended destination of this story and will be brought up in future chapters.

* * *

She pushed her way out of Studio 904 and into a balmy summer evening, making her way up First Avenue South toward the Pioneer Square District. The news had blathered about an uncomfortable daily high of the upper eighties, but she didn't mind as a temperate sixty-seventy-something hung in the air and clung to her skin. While the day had started out sunny, the rain had swept in and as the air cooled, turned to subtle fog in its attempt to evaporate. She hummed to herself as she passed Occidental Park, hands in her pockets drumming to the sounds of deconstructing Art stalls. The first Thursday of the month usually ended this way…local, culturally-inclined disciplines holding their incense-scented, cláirseach-resounding Masses for all the world to see. A pity she rarely attended. Then again, Art was not a genre within her resume of skilled dispositions. Though, tonight, she paused against a tree as various families and couples meandered past her and into the thickening darkness of First Avenue. Most of the stalls were gone and pockets of two or three stayed up only because the vendors were speaking amongst themselves, clapping each other's shoulders and throwing their heads back in laughter.

One of the standing stalls caught her attention enough for her to push away from the tree and draw nearer to investigate its wares. Her approach startled the women packing up. She was middle-aged with greying-blonde hair clinging to her cheeks and neck. Drumming her fingers in her pockets still, her head tilted as her eyes scanned the variety of handmade silver jewelry. She saw the woman's mouth moving, finger pointing to a few pieces inlaid with turquoise. While she could understand and appreciate the hard sell, she wasn't going to pay for the woman's mistake in pressing the silver, then trying to cover it up with smashed-in, unrefined pieces of turquoise. In a quick gesture from pocket to display, she rested her finger on a simple band with a twisting, interlacing design.

"I want this one," her voice, direct but soft, cut the air between them.

"O-Oh. But that one is-"

She plucked up the bracelet and turned it this way, that way in the light of a lamp on the display table, "Twice as much, I know. I can read."

"But wouldn't you rather-"

"No, I'd _rather _not," she held the bracelet out to the woman. "I know what I want and I want _this_ one. The design is simple, clean and well-made. Perhaps the best made of the lot. You put more effort into this one, so I want _this _one."

The vendor sucked in a breath but whether it was from the small insult or directiveness of her customer was to be left a mystery. Taking the bracelet, the woman turned to bag it up and grab a small three-ring binder labeled "Sales". She waved her hand at the box the vendor chose.

"I'll just wear it. Saves us both," she shrugged as the woman's face contorted with suspicion. How she hated that look, but the stony nature of her façade displayed little more than indifference. She knew the vague ideas bumping the woman's brain: _Does she even have the money? If so, where'd she get it? If not, is she doing this for laughs or poorly attempting a theft?_ Another quick movement slid an antique silver cigarette case from her back pocket. Clicking it open, she pulled two hundred dollar pills from a slim wad on the right.

The woman's eyes went wide as the bills were held out to her with one hand while the other plucked the purchase from its creator. With a snap and a slide, the cigarette case was replaced and her hand free to fasten the claspless trinket onto her wrist. She looked back at the woman's face, bemused as her middle-aged eyes darted from cash to customer. Her head cocked to one side, as if begging the woman to inquire. That never happened. The woman stiffened and swooped up a leather pouch from beneath the table.

"So I owe you-"

"You don't owe me anything." Another stiffened pause. "Consider the extra fifty a tip."

"Oh…uh, no, I couldn't do that," the woman was blushing, which was lost on her. "Really, I appreciate it but that isn't worth a fifty dollar tip."

"I agree," the blush drained. Sobering punch to the pride, "But I was feeling charitable since I held you up from closing up shop for the night." She turned from the woman, facing First Avenue once more.

"Wait! Take this then!" before she could get too far the woman had grasped her wrist and plunked a silver ring into her palm.

Confused, she looked down at the thing in her hand. It wasn't badly made, but not great either. It looked too big for her ring finger, otherwise occupied normally anyway. She rolled it in her palm and looked at the woman, who just stood there.

"Um…why?" her tone was as if the woman as plopped a clod of dirt there.

"I can't take a fifty dollar tip, I…I just can't. I don't need charity," the woman summoned something as she squared her body up. "So, you can take the ring instead."

She scanned the ring in her palm and looked back at the woman. Eyebrow raised, questioning _Is this a joke?_ "This isn't worth fifty dollars."

"I know. It's worth thirty-five," the woman smirked. She smirked in return and slid the ring on.

"I see. A fifty dollar tip is too big but a fifteen is just fine?" The ring hand slid its thumb into her front pocket and drummed the fingers, new ring sliding ever so so, against her jeans.

"Something like that." The woman finished and turned back to deconstructing her stall.

Chuckling at the attempt at shrewd business, she continued her journey down First Avenue. Her pocket vibrated and she slid her Motorola Razr out of her pocket and stared down at the screen which blinked "LARJ". She flicked the phone open with her thumb as she continued walking.

"I got my hair done," she started without letting the caller speak.

"Went through with it, huh?" his voice was cool. Degrees cooler than the air around her but what was his way.

"I figured if I didn't like it, I could always dye it back. Or wait until it grows out." She referred to the newly hued strand of silver in the front of her face. A purely hedonistic expenditure. Curiosity more than statement. "I bought jewelry too." To go with the hair? No. Well…perhaps. Sibling purchases born from a singular, spontaneous desire.

"And that is significant because?"

"It's silver…It's handmade and I bought it at an Art exhibit." Her nose crinkled as his chuckle echoed in her ear.

"Look at you, supporting the local industry little people. Is it pretty?"

"It's not hideous, if that's what you meant."

He laughed, "You didn't tell the sales person that, did you?"

She glanced down the street. A gaggle of familiar faces widened their stares and Red Sea parted as she passed and turned onto Yesler Way. "I used more words."

"I expected nothing less."

"Is there something I can help you with?"

"Not right now."

"Then you're calling because…?"

"You're not the only one triggered by nostalgia tonight. Let's say that."

"Hmph…intriguing," she stopped and stared at the Smith Tower, just across the street, while finishing this spontaneous conversation.

"You going to let me see it?"

"Hm?"

"Your hair. I'm imagining some skunk-like tail on the front of your face."

She smirked and laughed a bit, "Oh, Little Boy Blue…Your sheep's in the meadow to look after."

"Is that a no? Or a nursery rhyme way of saying you'll blow my horn if I do come?" He must have been alone to say something that bold.

Her smirked turned a little darker, her eyes a little more narrow. "You can go blow your own horn, Little Boy Blue."

She listened to him laugh and found their crude exchange refreshing for the night ahead. She looked down Yesler Way and grimaced, "I've gotta go. I have investments to check up on."

"Catch ya later then." And he hung up. She snapped the phone closed and replaced it to the pocket from whence it came. Smith Tower loomed behind her as she made her way further down the street and down 4th Avenue South to poke her head into Caffé Vita, her newest acquisition. Tonight was a night of check-ins before meetings, meetings and more meetings. She appreciated nights like this because they started off in a dressed-down, unassuming manner that always caught someone off guard. In her everything Old Navy look, from jeans to her black tank-top, she appeared little more than a strolling student from the nearby University campus. To the trained eyed, she was owner, director and more.

She merely sidled into an unoccupied outside seat and waited. She edged the menu more toward center with a constant tapping of her nail as the smells of pizza, coffee and smoke filled her senses. A presence beside her garnered her attention for a moment as they slid a small folder before her then departed to attend a waiting table. And as easily as she appeared, so she disappeared with the folder beneath her arm. Her gazed back at Smith Tower then hailed a cab for downtown.

She closed her eyes for a moment as the cab, driver weary of his cargo, pulled onto I-5 Northbound for the Central Business district of the city. She had dozens of holdings littered throughout her vast domain, but most of them were centered in that particular area. The Stimson-Green Mansion off of Seneca Street, the Lindeman Pavillion on Terry Avenue, the Washington Trust for Historic Preservation station at Minor and of course, the tactfully named Kindred Hospital Seattle down the street from Lindeman. And those were just a few…the hospital being the most important for multiple reasons.

She mostly invested in buildings when she wasn't investing in specific businesses or stock. Nostaglia had her investing in the historic and meaningful, hence the preservation trust. She considered it her duty to be philanthropic to a history she had seen grow over so many years. While she hadn't been here at its birth, she had certainly been here during Seattle's boom and every year since. Gold rushers, jazz music and Mt. St. Helen's ash rumbled in her veins as easily as the tires of this cab and if she could preserve one building from any of those eras, she would. If she could turn a major profit from tourism at the same time, that was even better.

The only begrudging part of these investments was the folders she returned with. Every stop meant a contact. Every contact had a folder. Each folder was a specific color No folder, no good. Wrong color, wrong night to be _you_. And that didn't mean for her. Though there were fewer and far between nights when she returned to the Smith with ruddy paste beneath her nails.

The good thing about litters of investments was that it expanded her domain beyond a singular building and title. Everything south of Richmond Heights and north of Riverton-Boulevard Park on this little isthmus was essentially hers. _Essentially_. Investments made _essentially_ metamorphose into _concretely_…._indisputably_. She wasn't greedy, though, nor voracious for domain. She just liked to make a point that this was _her_ city. Her compatriots were more than welcome to claim all the dance studios, law firms and pubs they wanted so long as she got what she was do.

Philanthropically dropping money on buildings wasn't the only way she expanded her influence in the city. She didn't centralize herself. Most of her investments nestled in the business district, but she did the night-to-night running of politics within the toppish ten floors of the Smith Building in Pioneer Square and spent the days and early evening hours in a sprawling, palatial residence in the Queen Anne borough.

_Never mix politics and pleasure_. The Russian accent lilted through her memory as she thought about the difference between her interactions between Smith and West Galer Street. Her fingers drummed the rainbow pile of folders in her lap as her phone buzzed in her pocket. She slid the phone out and furrowed her brow. Patrice Whaler, low totem pole secretary and loyal lapdog, chirped in her ear about her appointments, beginning to line up, and a slew of meetings with Mr. So-and-So or Ms. What's-Her-Face. Their names blended together in a smoothie of "she could care less".

"I'm five minutes away. I want the Michael Kors crepe dress, black. Jimmy Choos. I expect appropriate accessories. And I want a glass of my favorite…warm," she hung up. At this point in their relationship, she didn't have to tell her how or from whom she would get these things. She trusted they would be ready for her when she got there….in ten minutes. She said five and enjoyed walking into the tension those extra five minutes caused. After all, no one would tell her she had said five minutes instead of double that.

She had the cab stop where it had picked her up across from the café. She forked over more than an appropriate amount for the round trip from her cigarette case. Up Fourth Avenue South she went and turned toward the Smith building. Her sandals clacked against the stone, seemingly attracting attention from friends feeding in the shadowed nooks and alleyways. Silent, respectful regards for her movements from the darkness. Her hand came up to brush away the silver strand from her eyes. It would take some getting used to, but she wasn't at all unhappy about the decision. She looked down at the folders in her hand and counted the colors one more time. Compulsive mannerisms ingrained from long before all this.

She stopped beside a lamp post as she stared at the front entrance of the Smith. Tiny, icy crawlings moved up her back as she watched a business suit speak into a cell phone, his back to her. A palm rested on the roof of his car, charcoal black as the suit he wore. Charcoal was blocking her entrance to her building. More importantly…he wasn't supposed to be there. Whatever conversation he was having was less important when compared to where he was at the moment. She shifted from one foot to the other as she considered her alternatives. She could simply walk across the street and move to the back of the building via First Avenue. But that would put her two minutes behind. Twelve minutes was just ridiculous and served no purpose. Ten…ten was nice and even. Waiting here would do the exact same thing.

Though she didn't _need_ to, she exhaled and moved forward. She tucked the folders beneath her opposite arm and ran her fingers through her hair as she glided passed him. Charcoal spoke a foreign tongue, harsh and biting words, into his cell phone before ending his conversation. She had only just walked ahead of him when his body turned to face the building and his hand jutted out to grasp her upper arm.

"Stop." His command sounded similar to an owner training his dog. It elicited the same reaction. She stopped. Difference was…there was no treat at the end of this obedience.

She glanced at his face, not his hand as if he were any other ignorant person off the street or in her court. The glacial blue of his eyes were disapproving and she couldn't yet figure out if it was about the silver strand of hair, the pedestrian way she was dressed or the undignified manner in which she carried herself in the 2.5 seconds it took for her to pass him by. Though, she had a strong hunch which one it was the harder he stared and the more he sneered.

"Absolutely _not_."

She frowned, "I'm going to be late."

"_Fix _it!" he hissed and moved with her to the entrance of the building. "And what are you wearing? I doubt I raised you to display yourself with so little decorum."

She almost snarled. _You didn't raise me at all._ "I was merely checking on investments," she made a motion with the file folders. That was a mistake, because he forked his hand out so they could be humbly delivered into his grasp. Goodness, this was exhausting, but she did it since she did not want to be late by her own standards.

They rode the elevator up to the 25th floor, where her spacious office and conference area was located. True to form, shoes and _appropriate _accessories were set beside her desk (luxurious slippers tucked neatly beneath). She opened a closet door and there hung her dress, perfectly pressed. If Patrice kept up this up, she would undoubtedly be forced to promote the girl to something with more responsibility. However, that would require finding another gopher to get her attire for her and she wasn't sure she had the patience to get them up to snuff. She didn't even have time to move her hands to the bottom of her shirt before he was tearing it up over her head.

She resisted making any sound as he reached for the dress. At least he had the decency to let her remove her own jeans. He ignored the embellished undergarments as she stepped into the crepe dress…A-line and business-like. Zipped in, he studied her from back to front and still had a look of dissatisfaction. She followed his eyes down to her pale legs and she rolled her eyes.

"I'll be sitting behind my desk. No one will notice," she moved to slide her shoes on and replaced the newly-purchased silver with something a little more pricey and couture.

"It's inappropriate. And they will notice when you stand to _show them out_," he pressed, following her like an unwelcome shadow.

She hung her head and let out an agitated groan of annoyance before buzzing Patrice and requesting a pair of hose, as if the girl should have had them in here in the first place. He pulled her chair out and she sat down, starting up her computer with a flick of her wrist as he turned his attention to the humble jewelry she had removed.

"What are those?" he picked up the bracelet and studied it in the same manner she had, hours before.

She shrugged and fixed her hair back, "Spontaneous buy." She could have easily answered in a snarky manner, but she had to go home with him and the same hand holding the bracelet was capable of many things.

"From whom? And why?"

"Local _artiste_, and because I'm a natural born philanthropist," she joked at the end, attention on her email now.

"Not exactly beautiful, is it? If you wanted silver jewelry-"

He was abruptly cut off by Patrice sliding into the office. One hand held her hose and the other, a glass of her favorite…warm. She hadn't realized how she needed it until it was set in front of her. She looked at him, then at Patrice, who merely nodded and went off to fetch a second glass. That's how well he was known to her staff. She took a long drink, not wanting to wait for his to get there. She felt a small bit dribble from the corner of her mouth and a handkerchief swab it away.

"Such a messy eater…" he fussed, affectionately, and sat across from her with the rainbow of folders. "So, how are you?"

She was distracted by an uncomfortably long email. Eyes fixated on the screen rather than the man in the chair before her. She had five minutes until her first meeting. Five minutes, and an email and the man. She heard her name being called and snapped her attention back to pale blue eyes.

"Louisa?"


	2. Him

A/N: I honestly don't know what to think about this chapter. I think this is more, like the first chapter, something I must get out of my brain. This is the historical justification for my AUness. Again, if you're not a fan, whatevs...All will make sense later on.

It is almost 1476, but not quite. He is born around five in the evening in the already dark of December 29 at the Chateau d'Olhain. The ink of the Treat of Picquigny is only four months dry, the tensions between France and England simmer. Cesare Borgia is already three and half months old by the time he enters the world. He is the third son and fifth child of the Grand Veneur de France. He is named Evroult d'Olhain Nielles, to honor the Saint whose feast day this third son is born upon. As is tradition with his family, the third son is consecrated to the Lord to give thanks for all the abundance and good fortune that has been set before their family.

The year is 1491 and he has just turned fifteen. Though he was raised in a moderate level of comfort and was afforded a good education, his adolescence sees him preparing for the robe while his older brothers prepared for politics, and his older sisters married off to anyone who would increase the ever-growing power of the Olhain family. In early February, he is sent to become a member of the Brotherhood of the Cross, positions in the heart of Lorraine: Metz. While on his travels, his eyes scan the heavens out of boredom at night since the stars never let him down. On the twentieth, they reward his absent searching as a star, brilliant beyond all other, races across the night sky from the direction of Metz toward Savoie. Evroult takes this as a sign…a sign of great things to come that shall start in Metz and end in the East.

The Brotherhood of the Cross is the oddest monastic order he has ever seen, and he had seen plenty via his mother's pilgrimages. He can only come up with that they are the by-product of Benedictine doctrine and Knights of Hospitaller mannerisms. As soon as he arrives, his luxurious traveling clothes are replaced with heavy, dark cloaks of wool. A heavy, wooden rosary is given to him before the tour begins. The brothers all reside in an outcropping of the future St. Etienne de Metz, which they are helping to build and manage. He has never been a part of architecture before, though he has read about it.

* * *

His days are as regimented as a soldier's. Waking long before dawn for individual prayers and supplications, followed by a silent, reflective breakfast before daily Mass, which comes before hours of transcribing, reading and learning of doctrine…this is the life of a priest-to-be. And he hates it. He hates the smells of old men living together. He hates the feeling of old, delicate paper beneath his fingers. He hates getting up early to say prayers that never come. He writes to his father when he is supposed to be transcribing, pleading with him to release him from this torment and send him somewhere more useful. No letters are ever returned to him. So, he plunges forward…determined to find the great things his shooting star promised him. Evroult does not want to be a nameless priest or quiet monk for the rest of his life. If he must be condemned to a life of cloth, then he shall raise among the ranks as soon as possible and become Bishop of this beautiful cathedral…that will, no doubt, be magnificent in but a few short years. To entertain himself, he uses wooden broom handles to practice the sword strokes his elder brothers had taught him. When the brothers are not looking, he strikes at imaginary rouges and ne'er-do-wells in the barn instead of milking the cows or mucking the stalls.

A year later, as Rodrigo Borgia becomes Pope Alexander VI, so Evroult becomes a full-fledged member of the Brotherhood. A year of appearing as they wished him to, and ignoring his carnal desires for wanderlust and grandeur, and he is given a new name. A name to suit him…a name the brother's hope he will live up to: Sébastien. Evroult is no more…now he is a brother of the Cross: Sébastien, frère de la Croix. The name is the only thing he truly likes about this place. However, this place will not keep his attention for much longer as that November, while helping give Mass in Alsace, a star falls from the heavens. The impact is so hard, the noise so loud that the church walls shake and the statue of the Blessed Virgin near the entrance nearly falls over. The parishioners are too terrified to leave the church, so he is sent to inspect. Upon inspection, his fire is fed once more. He takes this as a second sign that, soon, his path will fall into his lap…he only needs to be patient and take some of the fallen star.

* * *

Young and dreamy, he allows his chunk of the heavens to encourage him through the next two years. Just when he begins to think he can bare the monastic life no longer, Charles VIII writes to all major cathedrals in request of a few good priests to accompany himself and his soldiers to war, and victory, against Italy. Without hesitation, Sébastien, "humbly" offers to go, to be a part of Charles' attempt to prove Savanarola's belief that he will purify a near-Gomorrah Italy. So Charles will grab some priests, monks, bishops or whomever and hold Masses while moving masses of soldiers for the sole purpose of taking back what was always his: Naples. And if he had to frighten a Pope to do it, Charles would.

Nearly three years since he saw his first sign shoot across the skies, and two years, ten days since the heavens fell at his feet, Sébastien is marching into Florence. Neither he, nor soldier, see much battle as the Italians flee for fear of rape and siege. It would be months more until they enter Naples…unchallenged and as boring a trek as if he were still in the cathedral. But he is not in the cathedral and in the dark of the night, no one knows he is a priest out of robes when fitted into an abandoned military uniform. This is where his life begins, he feels it. In the lackluster capture of Naples, Charles returns to France but Sébastien does not return with him. Long forgotten as a priest of few words, and even fewer confessions, Sébastien has managed to matriculate into the remaining army as if he were always one of them. The feeling of the sword at his side, a dagger up his sleeve…Yes, the cool and power of metal _belonged _to him.

* * *

He becomes ferocious. All that hatred from prayers, transcribing and epic boredom explode is vicious swipes of his blade. Though they are only training exercises, Sébastien emerges as someone passionate enough to be of use but smart enough to mold into a proper corporal. Gilbert de Bourbon sees the potential first and raises Sébastien up to be that useful corporal for his own uses…teaches him as much Italian as he can, smoother moves of the sword and cunning. Unfortunately, May brings not only a change in season, but of favor, as the French are ousted from Naples and sent into a scrimmage against the Spanish in Calabria. Beside de Bourbon, Sébastien receives his first real taste of warfare and sheds his first batch of enemy blood. This is the first time the deep red of another's life force imprints itself so powerfully into Sébastien's mind.

The Battle of Seminara shoulders its way into the Battle of Fornovo and he begins etching away the last remnants of his past life. Marching, bearing armor and swords reshape him from a soft, fleshy adolescent to a more hardened, sculpted young adult. If only his father and brothers could see him now. He earns a small trove for his hard work, blood and bravery. Gold apparently is the reward for a slash to the chest, abdomen or back…three times the amount if you get one in each location. He is lucky, no destined, to have healed anyway and now he returned to France with money to his name. His name… Sébastien la Croix.

* * *

With his earnings, he buys a better horse and carries himself back up to the North. He takes his time as he does so. Sébastien is in no hurry anymore. The small chunk of star in his coin purse is proving true. Small things have happened for him, not grand things…not yet, but soon.

He crosses from Italy into the Rhone regions and breaches the boundaries of Savoie. After weeks of seemingly endless travels, he rests in the commune of Barby. This area is a part of France he had never seen nor heard, but an encounter with a drunken man at an inn thoroughly educates him. The man is Charles de Seyssel, Lord of Aix and Bordeau and master of the Château de La Bâtie-Seyssel. At the foot of a nearby mount, the small estate welcomes Sébastien for his good Samaritan ways of bringing the drunken, whoring, way-ward lord back to his lady and land. As thanks, they keep him for days and regale him of tales of a Crusader ancestral forefather who rode beside Richard the Lionheart, give him the best wine for miles and probe him for details on this invasion of Italy.

Sébastien knows he cannot stay though their flirtatious daughter, exuberant nature and noble lifestyle fit everything he believes he is owed. Walls such as these, power such as this, _will_ belong to him one day. He will continue his rise among the ranks until he can go no higher. Just as the chateau looks down upon the modest commune, so he shall look down upon…upon… He cannot think over whom he will be, but his power will be absolute.

* * *

The turn of the century has come and gone. The end of all things did not happen. The French have reclaimed Naples, with stipulations from Aragon...who eventually receives it all. Exploration of the New World continues. Michaelangelo has erected a statue of a naked David, Isabella I has died and war brims between France and Spain. Meanwhile, Sébastien has taken up residence in Sedan, under the employ of Robert II de la Marck. With his knowledge of architecture from his way-gone-by priestly days, Sébastien helps Marck finish construction of his family's grand Chateau de Sedan. On permanent employ to de la Marck, Sébastien is given the privilege of dwelling in the palatial space.

This was not the step forward he was hoping for. He wanted to be master of the house, not keeper of the keys. He missed the days of war and battle. His sword or scabbard now only served to scare of would-be bandits and wayward drunks. He also serves to protect important bodies during important gatherings. Master of the guard, keeper of the keys, marches around the house in the black of night and encounter a most peculiar man. Apparently not one for the luxurious party outside, the man follows Sébastien for a short time before striking conversation. His name is Archambaud de Croÿ and he is from Belgium, or so he says. He looks to be Sébastien's age, but there is something about his eyes…his young features that has a very hard, weathered disposition. Though contemporaries, Sébastien gets the uneasy feeling this man has seen much, much more than he.

Preying on Sébastien's utter boredom, de Croÿ lures the glorified gatekeeper from the safety of the chateau walls and windows. Sébastien does not believe, for a minute, there is no reason not to trust this man entirely. What happens next, he could never have expected, propels him down the star-riddled path he dreamt for himself all those years ago…


	3. Her

A/N: So this chapter was far more enjoyable to write. And now that the history is predominantly out of the way, things will hopefully pick up. Unfortunately, I can't say what update timing will look like as I am graduating from grad school in six weeks, finishing internship and looking for a job. However, your reviews and suggestions are encouraged but your flames are not.

Chapter 3: Her

She is born at the end of the summer of 1555. Her mother labors with her for hours in the cool of the night, the dawn of the morning…until she emerges at the height of the afternoon. All sunshine and warmth on a crown of black hair as she breaks into this life with strong, piercing wails. She is the second daughter and last child of three to the Marquis and Marquess of Aix and la Chambre, born in the beautiful Château de La Bâtie-Seyssel. She is baptized three days after her birth and christened with the name Louise Aliette Françoise Seyssel-Chambert.

Like her elder two siblings, she possessed her mother's good looks and father's wit. Marie, elder by two years, has the greater portion of their mother's visage combined with their father's fairer hair. Jean, eight years older, is quite intelligent but sickly. Louise falls somewhere in between. She is harder to read than the other two and just when her mother or nurse thinks she's been figured out, she reignites the mystery. Louise was pretty, but the blue of her eyes held a curiosity bordered by cunning. When she wanted something, she _wanted _it, and usually found a way to get it. She is a clever little problem-solver but impatient and intemperate in contrast to her siblings.

Marie, with temper not foreign to her, could remain docile and obedient for longer periods because she had learned that, by doing so, she got what she wanted. Jean was too sickly to garner anything but sympathy from those around him. He did not have to fight or fuss to get what he wanted when a well-placed cough could do it for him. Louise was not so lucky. She had been her father's last hope at a healthy son and when not being fussed at by him, was overlooked. Charles Guillaume Seyssel-Chambert does not know how to relate to his children in any way besides tending to their education. Louise doesn't care though, for she loves her mother above anyone else in the world, and the lady loves her children back.

* * *

Things become more complicated as France explodes into a civil war in 1562 over religion. The staunchly Catholic family of Savoie is now constantly on edge. Fear of Protestant ruffians gives Louise nightmares, which her elder sister only provokes. Massacre brings more than just fear. It brings strangers and soldiers to their little commune. A bang on their fortified doors in the middle of a stormy night draws Marie and Louise from their sleep. From their room, they can hear the guardsmen bring someone into the grand hall. Louise is almost seven, Marie nine, as they descend the cold stones to spy who is bothering their father _this_ late at night.

There are two of them. Damps hoods thrown back as they introduce themselves. Too far away to hear, the sisters do not catch their names but make quick work of taking them in. They are roughly the same height, the blonde a little taller perhaps but not enough to make much difference. The blonde man is like one carved from stone. Even from a distance, he appears hard and sharp, unforgiving and unrelenting with his hand ever on his sword. His eyes are icy, like the lake after its first thin layer of frost. He is probably just as warm. His companion is a bit different. Longer brown hair with honey eyes. He is the warmer of the two. He apparently knows how to smile. Traveling in this weather has made both pale, which makes their eyes sharper and while Marie seems drawn to them, Louise hangs back.

"Marie, _don't_…" she whispers, unsure, "We'll get in trouble!"

Marie ignores her sister and makes the brave first steps toward the strangers, easily drawing attention to herself. That is what Marie does, after all. Like Sunday Mass choir synchronicity, the heads of the strangers snap to take in the newcomer. This was far from the lord they were expecting. Louise stays put, like a stone herself until her father strides in with her mother following behind. Like a bolt of lightning, Louise darts from her hiding place on the stairs to her mother's skirts. She doesn't like either man but is too full of curiosity to stray away now. They don't seem amazed that another popped out at all.

The dark-haired stranger laughs and shakes his head, kneeling his body down to look at both girls. Louise feels uneasy beneath his gaze and tugs for her mother to pick her up. At seven, though, her mother knows she can stand for herself.

"Pauvre et douce petite fille…" the dark haired man coos and before she can react, his cool hand is patting her head. He straightens himself and bows a little to her father. His compatriot follows suit, but says nothing. From this vantage point, Louise can hear the lulling tone of the man's voice as he explains who they are and what brings them to the chateau. Nobles from Belgium, they had been traveling back from Italy when they encountered hostile Protestants. The blonde was motioned to, but by this time, Louise's eyes are feeling heavy and her fascination in them has been lost. She leans against her mother's leg and considers the honey she saw one of the field servants bring in.

She feels a tingling sensation on her neck and brings her gaze back around. The blonde man is staring at her and she can only stare back. She is incapable of looking away. Her hand tightens on her mother, who is busy watching her husband walk away with the dark-haired gentleman. Her father's voice calls back from the entryway for her mother to get some servants and rooms ready. A quick, but gentle, slap to the hand releases her mother from Louise's grip as she moves to do what a lady of the house does. She leaves her daughters in the presence of a strange man to get servants.

Marie is teetering between following them and the stranger left behind. She opts for the latter and moves in between her sister and the man, breaking the unwavering gaze with her larger-than-size presence.

"Sir, what's your name?" Marie asks as polite as she can, since it is painfully obvious she wasn't paying attention the first time this was explained.

He appears frustrated by this question, and corrects a quick sneer to answer it for Marie, "Sébastien." His voice is the same shade of ice as his eyes. His fingers are drumming against the hilt of his blade as he looks between both girls, shifting uneasily in their chemises. He is as unsure of what to do with them as they are of him, but the staring contest continues until Marie opens her mouth again to display her deficit in attention.

"Where are you from?" her eyes are growing wider. She is voicing the curiosity Louise is too afraid to make known.

"Belgium," he spits it out like a piece of cooked fat. He stares hard at Marie and cocks a brow, relaxing a little. "And what is your name, pretty little miss?"

Compliments are Marie's Achilles heel and she beams as she recites the long name bequeathed to any noble-born child, "Marie Hélene Joseé Seyssel-Chambert."

"Lovely name," he replies. Louise can hear the boredom in his voice. All adults become bored with children eventually, only most pretend to be otherwise for longer. This man does not pretend. This man is not that nice.

"You don't sound like you're from Belgium," Louise whispers, toeing the ground and waiting for her mother to come back. Perhaps her nurse maid. When he lifts her eyes, the man is staring at her again. His brows are lifted but his eyes are unhappy.

"Pardon?" he brings himself slowly down to their level. Like a hunter drawing back their bow, the move is slow and purposefully like a hunter. "What did you say?"

Marie is looking back at Louise in a manner most instant. _Speak! _Her sister's eyes command her but for fear, Louise clamps her mouth shut and tries to look down at her feet, which have grown cold by now. She just wants to go to bed.

Cool fingers tap insistently on the bottom of her chin, compelling her to look up into those discomforting eyes. "_Tell me what you said_." His command is soft as feathers, but strict and cutting. Her bodies tightens as she tries to resist, but she cannot. She feels utterly compelled to answer his request, even if it comes out a whimper.

"I said you don't sound like you're from Belgium." Louise can feel her bottom lip trembling.

"And what makes you say that?" his voice has changed a fraction. He is reacting to her quivering lip and voice.

"Your friend, he sounds different from you. You sound like Henri…" Louise scoots until she is behind her sister, nothing more than a dark crown of hair in his line of vision.

"Henri?"

Marie is slow to catch on, but fast enough to answer the man's question in her sister's stead. "Henri is our cousin…He's from the North. He lives in Reims."

The man makes a sound and Louise looks toward the opening of the hallway. She can hear her father coming back. From the other direction, their mother is returning with servants. Marie opens her mouth, asks another question but Louise is preoccupied on getting back to her mother. The tingly feeling at her neck draws her attention back to the man. Marie's eyes are locked there too.

"_Go to bed_." And that is that for the night.

* * *

Sébastien does not like children. He never has. Of all the things he grieved losing once he was embraced, children were not among them. He had considered the necessity of passing his name along to a healthy son, but only when he had gotten his due…his title, his land, his everything the fallen stars promised. A necessity which would have required the deplorable state of marriage to an unworthy woman with no definite guarantee of pregnancy, much less a son, after the first attempt. The very act required for such things was never as satisfying for Sébastien as it had been for the vast majority of his fellow soldiers. Crying Italian women, overdone French whores…none of them satisfied beyond brief relief from the tolls of campaigning. He was constantly accused of being too rough, too cold…too something. All Sébastien heard was whining, excuses for poor performance and technique. In the end, after countless teasing from other men at arms, Sébastien emerged the victor after hundreds were crippled with syphilis.

He had always been more interested in improving his skill with a sword of steel, not flesh, anyhow. That skill is what got him where he was now. _Immortal_. Forever young with strength and abilities to crush the skulls of his enemies. However, instead of developing those skills to be as sharp as the blade at his side, Sébastien and his sire were relegated to being missionaries for the great gospel of the Camarilla. In an effort to strengthen the original following convened at the Convention of Thorns, lower level Kindred were given the opportunity at glory and prestige by spreading the word and securing converts. Given his ecclesiastical background, Sébastien was a natural choice for the job. Being a leech, de Croÿ though it "best" to join his youngest Childe in this task. A task that had brought Sébastien back to a place he has not seen, nor thought of, in over sixty years.

The flirtatious daughter is long since married away and elderly, if not dead and gone. Her elder brother's grandson is now the lord and as Sébastien watches his sire speak with the man, he can see the vague similarities between him and his antecessor, between him and the small, pale things he shooed off. Oh yes, his task had brought him back to a very familiar home with a completely unfamiliar cast of characters. Charles is not so jovial, not so alcoholic as his predecessor was and these qualities earn Sébastien's speck of respect. Charles is welcoming though, especially when they offer a façade of proof of their dedication to the Holy Roman Catholic Church. Sébastien receives his own room and spends an hour covering the windows, make shifting a layer of curtains to surround his bed. Until they return to Belgium, with lavish rooms _sans fenestella_, he is paranoid of the dawn.

The remainder of the night is his to contemplate upon. Though they fed before arriving, Sébastien uncorks a bottle of his finest and pours himself a quarter of his glass. Something to sip in time with his reflections as he enjoys the crackling of a small fire. _Simple pleasures_, he tells himself as he inhales the bouquet of his crimson refreshment…youth with notes of discipline, finery and dedication. _Superb,_ he thinks as he sips again and takes another breath to get the full taste of it on his tongue. The blood catches in his throat as a very different scent invades his senses. He swallows and sneers, running his thumb along the lip of the glass as the aroma of that little girl hovers on his soft palate. She had been in this room sometime today, for a great stretch of time and now she has soured the delicate, delicious taste of the Italian duchess.

Sébastien has never liked children. For a number of reasons mostly centered around their disgusting, needy ways, Sébastien avoids children at all costs. He is a strict disciple of the progeny between "spare the rod, spoil the child" and "children are better seen, not heard". He wanted to stab de Croÿ for leaving him alone with those two. A dirty-blonde with a never-ceasing mouth, and a pale, shy but impertinent imp with a coal-black crown…At least they were not unattractive and at least the younger had the correct idea of keeping silent. He gripped his glass as a ripple of unexpected excitement ran over his stomach. Predator by nature, Sébastien could not deny the intense pleasure he found in forcing that child to talk.

His eyes slid closed. He inhaled again as the tip of his tongue ran along the back of his right fang. Her pale skin, her downcast eyes of mulled cerulean and that trembling lip. His stomach tightened and he clenched his teeth. The fear in her eyes as he compelled her to look into his eyes, the heart that pumped faster as he obliged her to answer his question, the hopeless realization that she could not fight him…all these things formed a delirious libation that did not quench, but thoroughly aroused the beast in him. The part of him that enjoyed _the hunt_ for fame and fortune as a soldier, that marauding essence of being a vampire was stirring. Sébastien had worked hard to reign that in, make it as uniform and disciplined as the rest of him. He drank from goblets and glasses, not fleshly throats. He didn't want the skin spoiling the taste of the blood. Therefore, he had become skilled at cutting and healing without tasting. But this place…he pitched forward and downed the contents left in the glass. This place with its people was threatening the resolve he had spent his Kindred career creating. No, not _people_…person. He snarled and stood. That little girl with her perfect, submissive disposition was undoing him quickly.

No, Sébastien did not like children. He _did_ like prey. And now, he had found the perfect prey to entertain himself with until they were on their way.

* * *

They were never on their way. Two years seemed to have flown by in a swirl of intensifying religious unrest and petty torment for Louise. She didn't understand her father's sudden willingness to endorse two strangers after countless denials to fellow nobles. They were wealthy enough to endorse dozens but her father was so private and contemplative that he would rather money sit and gain interest than risk losing it because it was attempting to _do _something. That changed, like Summer to Fall, with the arrival of barons de Croÿ and LaCroix.

Louise's stomach tightened into a horrible knot. The quill in her hand shook, sprinkling ink all over the paper she was practicing her letters on. Baron de Croÿ she could handle. He tried too hard to be overly gregarious with everyone in the chateau and patted her like she were a pet of his. The other baron…that was an entirely different story Louise hated playing a character in. For two years, he seemed to make it his personal mission to torment her as he liked. It wasn't blatant, like the way the field hands trained horses with whips; no, this was far more subtle and invisible to anyone who wasn't she nor he.

Her writing, her riding, clothes, hair, attire…all of it was up for his unwanted criticism. And what baffled her the most is how a man she only saw once a week, for an hour or two at the most, could be so effective at making her quiver with fear. It wasn't just the critiques, however. Her sister often criticized her, especially once she began putting on weight that hadn't existed for Marie when she was Louise's age. Her father assessed her, too, though his perspective was more academic. No…Monsieur LaCroix also _touched_.

He liked to wait until they were alone, until Marie had darted from the room. Then he would do it. He would touch under her chin, or grasp her jaw, or curl his fingers about her shoulder and squeeze. Every time he did, Louise couldn't help but look at his face.

She dropped the quill and looped her arms around her middle, feeling the poke of her chubby stomach through the gown. Even the memory of his glacial stare had her frightened. He didn't do anything beyond _making_ her recognize him. Once she did, he would say something, release his hold and she could breathe again. For those few seconds he touched her, though, it felt like he were suffocating her with a pressure unknown to her. This unseen force pushed her down, tightened her up and held her captivated for his discretion.

As a result, Louise began keeping to rooms she knew he would not enter. She began rushing through her meals and prayers, all in an effort to get to bed before they got to the chateau. Sometimes she would be lucky, sometimes she wouldn't. Regardless, Louise now suffered from nightmares _at least _once a week. Claws and fangs, pain and blood…horrific scenes she couldn't explain and could talk about with no one else besides her brother. Jean, for his part, listened with intent but his ill disposition left him as little aid. They shared a mutual dislike for Baron LaCroix, but these siblings were at the mercy of their own demons in keeping him away.

Louise abandoned her practices as the sun waned in the sky. She trotted herself down to check on dinner and hide among her mother and maids, in the event the men showed themselves tonight. She was glad she never saw them during the day, and unlike Marie, never questioned why.

* * *

She was unlucky that evening. Dinner had been pushed back, which meant prayers were pushed back, which meant he was striding down the hallway by the time they emerged from their private chapel. Marie, overeager for his attentions, practically rushed him once she saw him. He had learned to tolerate her more, indulge her a little and expand the length of his patience but even he had his limits. Sébastien was not up for placating a young girl who flirted with death itself. No, his eyes were on the prey that managed to escape him.

"That's lovely, Marie, but if you will excuse me," he tugged his arm away and continued walking, leaving the pouting girl just behind, "Your father asked me to fetch him something."

She would have followed, had her mother not called her. He was grateful and free. Free to pursue the hunt he had left off since five days ago. He took his time walking, since the weighty nine year old had a third, or less, his stride. He caught up to her, rounding a corner in time to see her ducking into the study. _Unfortunate babe_, he thought and smiled a wicked smile as he entered in behind her.

She was curled into a chair, trying to make herself so small as to not be seen by anyone. Poor her, that she looked larger the harder she tried to contract. She was focused too, as he saw the quill moving as fast as she could make it without completely botching whatever she was working on. The beast swelled within him as he moved up behind her chair, gazed over her shoulder and took in what she was doing. He heard her swallow whatever lump fear had created in her throat. And her fear smelled delicious.

"What are you doing, Louise?" he loomed and moved his hands down to the arms of the chair. She clutched her arms to her side, as if afraid he would burn her.

"Nothing," Louise stilled her quill, hesitated in lifting it then dipped it into the ink well.

"Tut, tut, tut," he clucked his tongue and kneeled down so he was eye-level with the profile of her face. He could hear her heart begin to race, and the sweet blood just beneath the surface dash about her body. Oh, this was too easy and too satisfying for words. The more structured part of himself _knew_ he should stop. She was becoming pudgy and that was hardly attractive but the beast…the _beast wanted_ this. That fraction of his person enjoyed too much the way her eyes teared up when he stroked the soft skin beneath her chin and forced her to look up. Yes, that predator enjoyed her helplessness and unwilling obedience. "You shouldn't _fib_, Louise. You are _obviously_ not doing _nothing_."

He watched her tiny fist clench and relax as she began writing once more. Her blue eyes were zeroed in on each letter, but the rest of her was fully away of how close danger was. He leaned in a little and she paused, sucked in a little breath and tried to fidget away from him.

"I'm writing," she acquiesced.

"Writing what?" he rewarded her with a miniscule amount of space.

"A letter…" she dipped the quill again. Ever on edge.

"To whom?" his fingers began to flex and she tensed. He knew she knew what was coming.

She did not answer. She just continued writing, which was not especially easy for her. He felt the prickle of irritation in the back of his skull and pressed forward. She stiffened, but continued her task as undeterred as she could in a very deterring situation.

"I asked you a question, Louise. It is quite rude of you not to answer me," his fingers drummed. She swallowed. The beast growled.

Still, she remained resolutely silent. He wanted to laugh. His doughy, little hind was attempting to fight back. Too bad for her that only stags have antlers to battle with. His fangs throbbed as he moved a hand for her shoulder.

* * *

"No!" she shrieked and spun. She hadn't fully thought out what she was doing as the hand, still holding the quill, came flying at his face. The next sound she heard was him roaring as his hand flew to his face. No…does don't have antlers. But she was no doe. She was a frightened nine year old with a freshly sharpened quill.

She didn't want to wait around to deal with him angry. She had dealt with him enough in whatever unsavory mood he was usually in. Louise toppled out of the chair, scrambled and made a bee line for the door. Behind her, he made a hissing noise and before she got too far, she felt a solid grip on her shoulder. She cried out, something sharp stinging her skin in a few places and forcing her to turn around.

Just when she began to fear he had her, the door to the study flew open and her mother stood in the doorway. Louise's nurse was behind her and neither looked happy about the sight before them. Like a toddler, Louise broke down.

"Mama!" she cried and shrugged off his hand enough to run for her mother's waist.

"What's going on in here?!" for a delicate woman refined by courtly teaching, her mother commanded a surprising amount of presence.

"I'm afraid I may have startled your daughter," she heard him half-lie. Louise partially turned her face from her mother's gown to look at him. A red kerchief was pressed against the right side of his face and two thin lines of red ran from between his fingers.

"I can see that," Louise felt her mother's reassuring hands on her shoulders. "My question is how did that happen?"

"She was so immersed in writing this," he paused, turned and looked at what she had created, "_letter_, that when I reached for the book your husband was lending me, I must have scared her out of her wits."

"And your cheek?"

"Will be fine," he answered curtly.

"Well, then, have a good evening monsieur LaCroix. Louise, it is past your bed time."

Louise was never so happy to be led to her bedroom by a curt mother. She didn't even give him a backwards glance as she trotted between the protection of her dearest Mama and nurse.

* * *

He waited until they were gone, and out of earshot, to curse soundly. He pulled the stained piece of cloth from his face and traced the healing scrape with the tip of his finger. He snarled as he looked down at the letter. A letter to her blasted cousin, detailing what a devil Sébastien was. A letter that took her considerable time to write. Out of spite, he crumbled up the letter and threw it into the fireplace to watch it burn with relish.

He glanced down at his other hand. Blotches of red decorated three of his fingers. He hadn't meant to prick the girl with talons normally unused, but she had provoked him and deserved some punishment. He lifted his hand to sniff at the blood. He had never bothered being interested in her blood, since she was still a child. She hadn't enough vintage to herself to be anything but bland, though the aroma was mouth-watering. For the hell of it, Sébastien licked the blood off his fingers.

He stiffened as the taste danced on his tongue. She was sweet…_oh, so sweet_. Her blood reminded him of the thrills of war, of the excitement of seeing that star race across the heavens. He groaned and wiped his fingers with the clean part of the handkerchief. Sébastien LaCroix was now very hungry.


	4. Taste and See

A/N: Sorry for the wait! In the midst of graduation, finding a job and moving I haven't really had time to sit down and write. That, and the idea didn't stir the same way they did for the other three chapters.

* * *

They called it a "peace" between the Catholics and Protestants of France, but Louise knew better. She may not have been the politician her father was, or the warrior her Crusader ancestor was, but she knew the difference between peace and this joke of a treaty between the crown and rebels. Peace meant lying in her bed without fearing a knife at her throat come morning, it meant visiting the town priest without praying to the Virgin not to be jumped and killed going either way. Most of all, peace meant not living within a horseback ride's distance from one Baron LaCroix.

Where LaCroix had been teasing for self-satisfying reasons before, ever since her quill scraped his face he had been nothing less than malicious. Before he had simply poked her pudgy side for the sake of touching her and making her shiver with fear. Now he made cruel remarks for the sake of watching her cry. Sometimes she believed the sting of a Protestant's blade would be easier to endure than the presence of a man now bent on making her suffering Hell a reality on Earth.

No, this was an armed peace…a militant reconciliation facilitated by the bastard daughter of Henry VIII, who sat upon the English throne while her troops occupied Le Havre. Louis de Bourbon, prince de Condé had his Treaty of Hampton Court, the Huguenots had a champion in Elizabeth I and the Guise family was forced to dispel with their tails between their legs. The only benefit to any of it was that a large portion of men return to the commune of Barby. Good, strong Catholic men enlisted by her father who made Louise feel the littlest bit safer but she imagined the surrounding woods to be filled with as many Protestant ruffians as it was wolves.

The only person more unnerved by the War of Religion than Louise was her mother. Beatrice de Foix-Seyssel-Chambert is as Catholic as rocks are hard, as gentle and honorable a lady as merino wool is soft but above all these things, she is like a hawk over her children. Filled with indelible guilt over Jean's seemingly constant maladies, Beatrice has taken it upon herself to know her children's comings and goings with the dedication of a Florentine banker. Her nervousness that this war places her darlings in direct danger is the source of many arguments between she and the Marquis, who does not understand why he wife would want to leave the semi-fortified walls of Château de La Bâtie-Seyssel for the unknown of her sister's house in Reims. This bellicose armistice has as much merit to Beatrice as it does Louise, for both can see the end nigh and danger around every corner.

* * *

In his eyes, Louise had every right to double look around every turn of her chateau. Sébastien had never been one to forgive easily, and even when he took it upon himself to bend to the ways of mercy and forgive, he did not forget. In Louise's case, the forgiveness was a fragile one and though no scar lingered, the burn of her quill enraged him every time he glanced at her chubby form. The memory was a constant reminder of how Beast or no Beast, he had failed to make a lesser being bend to his will. His well-planned strategy had failed him and resulted not only in a sting to the pride (as well as the flesh) but a hunger taboo, even to the most unscrupulous of Sabbat.

He thirsted for the blood of a nine year old girl! A child, of all tragedies! While the innocence of children oft provoked a bloodlust in their kind unimaginable to the rationally minded, it was so strictly forbidden that to indulge oneself in the act would put the perpetrator on equal pedestal with Diablerists. His head would roll faster than an unrepentant Lasombra's. Still, while he could not yield to his desires with fang or blade, he could cosset the hunger with an imagination so delectable, so gratuitous, it would make Toreador blush.

The most unhinging aspect of any of this was the fact that Sébastien _was unhinged_. All those years of resolute determination that pulled him through a brief priesthood, hours of strict discipline to make him an adept soldier and decades of meritorious service to the Camarilla and ladder climbing were being rusted and compromised by the sapidity of a pre-adolescent female. Therefore, while he may have gratified the hunger in the wee hours of the eventide with a shameful fantasy of draining Louise, he punished himself the way a commander would a corporal for unproductive behavior. Like a flagellate monk, he would beat himself with his belt until the images dissolved into nothing more than ashy rage. This was training forged through discipline.

He could no longer fill her with fear, lest it continue to provoke the bestial famine frothing in his stomach. Instead, he filled her with pain. He spat careless insults at her face and back, gestating hatred and tears in her. Hatred was easier to bear than sumptuous fear. When she hated him, he could be in a room with her all night long and think of her as nothing less than another kine overpopulating the world. With hatred tainting her blood, salted by anger or injured tears, Louise was as appetizing as her sister or sickly brother. Hatred made her no one special, and that kept the beast chained where it belonged. But who knew how strong those chains were…how long they would hold before they snapped and like Charybdis, swallowed Sébastien's sanity whole and left Louise nothing more than a husk of skin and useless organs, several pints filling his belly? So, Louise had a _very _good reason to be afraid.

* * *

"Make him go away, Papa!" Louise whined.

"Keep silent until you are spoken to, child! I do business with the Baron and until that business is concluded, he will come and go as I please!" Charles snapped at his youngest child, rubbing a temple.

Not one to usually give into whining, Louise had reached an all-time low in her patience for LaCroix's presence in her home, "But what does he do for you that another noble could not?"

Her father let out a long, exaggerated sigh and caught his daughter's eyes. His countenance softened a fraction when he saw the pained determination in Louise's expression. While not a nurturer, like Beatrice, Charles was not cruel and strove to give all three children better than he had had himself. Still, business like politics and religion were spheres only weakened by the grasping fingers of women.

"Louise, if you find yourself bored then I highly suggest you continue to practice your reading or writing. For heaven's sake, go pray to the Virgin or patron saints to remove Baron LaCroix from your path but do not ever again meddle in my business with him or presume to have the influence to sway my disposition toward him, as he has made me an even wealthier man!"

Louise pouted out a bottom lip, mimicking Marie's mannerisms that often won her father over, "Father, he is cruel to me! He calls me fat!"

Her chubbier cheeks, in contrast to Marie's sleekier facial contours, reaped poorer results than her sister. Charles winced and leaned back in his chair, setting down the quill he had been using to scratch out financials. Louise recognized the wince. It was the same one her nursemaid made when the dresses became a little tighter, when the bodice wouldn't tie the whole way shut and new fabric needed to be bought to make Louise something new that would fit. Some girls might appreciate new dresses, but not Louise because they were being made to accommodate her new _width _in the wrong place, not the new height or bust or hips girls acquired with age. Charles drummed his fingers then looked at his daughter full in the face.

"Louise…perhaps the manner in which he is saying these things is inappropriate, but their veracity is not."

A cold air rose between Louise and her father as she stared at him for several silent seconds. Her mouth trembled and eyes burned as she turned and left the room. She heard her father call for her to stop but she ignored him and marched to find her mother.

* * *

_**His words still rang in the hollow of her ears centuries after they'd been spoken. In this modern era with of psychology, Opera and Dr. Phil, Louisa was able to gain perspective on the exact extent of the damage wrought by her father's words. Poorly timed, though as tenderly delivered as a man of his time could accomplish, Charles planted the seed for Louisa's obsessive behaviors from that day forward. Weight was no more an issue for her now than breast cancer or liver failure, but that didn't free Louisa from painfully preoccupying over board meetings, character files or real estate.**_

_** "I believe I've said all I need to on this matter," her nails, with their seventy dollar white tips, stop their drumming to add a minute dramatic flair.**_

_** Four bodies at the table stiffened. She couldn't just see it, she could smell it. Hormones polluting the blood, forcing muscles to contract out of a desperate plea for self-preservation…it was an exhilarating aroma. It wasn't until she inhaled that aroma for the first time that she fully understood why he played the games he played when she was little. Fear was to the blood for some Kindred what chocolate sauce was to ice cream for kine. Her first taste of fear-ladden sanguine had been the smallest step to forgiving the Baron for his antics. And just like he had thought back then, she thought now. They had a reason to be afraid. One of their members was tap-dancing on her last available nerve for the evening.**_

_** A fifth, last body at the table was smirking. Out of the corner of her eye, Louisa saw the final primogen turn the pages of the proposal with a talon, "Perhaps my colleague's passion has overridden their better judgment in a matter this sensitive."**_

_** "My judgment is as sharp as it has ever been!" a palm smacked the table, breaking the tension in the room and snapping her last nerve in two.**_

_** "And I will remind each and every member at this table that the only judgment that matters at this point in time is mine," she closed her copy of the proposal and folded her hands in front of her. This time, all bodies tensed. "Someone, anyone…tell me what I'm thinking right now."**_

_** Five throats swallowed. Five bodies fidgeted in their chairs. Five shells of blood filled with fear, titillating nasal cavity. One, quivering mouth opened to answer her question, "That this is a subject we should put to bed until the need arises for us to give it deserving attention."**_

_** Though the youngest primogen of her court, Lorelei O'Hara, made a point of understanding her prince as well as she possibly could. She was old enough to be primogen but young enough to know how close her head was to the chopping block if she screwed up. Therefore, though a painful suck-up behind the backs of her colleagues, Lorelei knew best how to answer the question thrust at them. Louisa closed her eyes, set her hands on the arms of her chair and nodded. Five chairs squeaked as five bodies rushed, as formally as they could, out the door. Oh yes, they had reason to be afraid.**_

* * *

Louise thought she knew fear, understood it from a privileged point of view afforded her by Baron LaCroix. What she thought she comprehended as fear when she woke that morning was a watered-down, pale comparison to the fresh knowledge she gained by the end of the night. The world was an utterly different place by the end of the night.

The day started like any other. A cool breeze was in the air to signify Summer's progression to Autumn completed. The leaves finished changing their colors and the grapes on the vine were plump and ready to be harvested. The chill in the air may have been the cause, but for whatever reason Jean's health took a turn for the worst. The chateau echoed with the chorus of his hacking coughs. Louise spent the better part of morning and afternoon shut within the family chapel. Her knees throbbed and thumb ached from hours of bead-moving hours of prayer. What could not be guaranteed by medicines or doctors' traditional remedies, Beatrice firmly believed could be accomplished by fervent prayer. While they prayed, doctors besieged her beloved brother with leeches. When she groaned or complained, Beatrice ordered her to consider the agony of her brother or the holy passion of their Savior before groused any further. Believing she only had one parent still pleased with her, Louisa shut her mouth unless to murmur in sacred Latin.

By late afternoon Louise could see the toll of unanswered prayers undoing their mother. Wanting to stay as close to her first born and maintain her role as the strong spiritual support of the house, her mother made the reluctant decision to send Louisa, Marie and one of the men-at-arms to ride to commune's church to light a candle, pray to the Virgin and bring back the priest. Excited to leave the chateau and fear of death, Louisa rode with vigor but little did she know what she would be riding to.

They entered the church and found it quite empty. The setting sun created an ominous lighting throughout the sanctuary. The statue of the Lady looked less full of grace and more filled with menace. Her downcast features, which usually inspired a sense of maternal mercy, now only made Louise feel judged. Judged for being too heavy, for not praying enough, for whining while her brother suffered…a hundred guilts thrown on her from the eyes of a single statue. Louise's hand shook as she lit the candle. She watched Marie's shudder so much the flame went out. They sent the guard to find the priest so they could get out and go home as quickly as possible. Louise kneeled and raised her hands to pray, sensing her sister's uneasiness as much as her own. The footsteps of the guard interrupted her prayers. He grasped her upper arm and told her they needed to leave immediately.

"Why?" she and Marie asked in unison as she rose to her feet.

"The priest is dead," he hissed, drawing his sword as they headed for the door.

"What?! But how?!" Louise felt her stomach tighten and listened to Marie squeak beside her.

"It is an omen!" Marie collapsed to her knees and crossed herself.

"Get up you little fool!" the guard turned and bent to raise Marie up.

Louise cried, the guard grunted and spat a mouthful of blood into Marie's face before collapsing beside her. An arrow stuck out of his back like some murderous agent of a vengeful Cupid. The archer stood in the doorway of the church, bow lowered and visage shadowed by the last sliver of dying sunlight. He was not alone either. There was a man on either side of him and they were advancing.

* * *

Kindred or kine, the fragrance of death was never a pleasant one. It was possibly worse for Kindred with their heighten sense smell. The boy was clearly dying but LaCroix estimated, and de Croy confirmed, Jean had a few years left in him. By the time LaCroix and his sire arrived at the chateau, the hype of bloodletting had thinned and the anxiety of the still-absent daughters was at its height.

LaCroix allowed his socially flamboyant sire ease their benefactor's fears while he took a more practical approach and rode off to the church to find the girls for himself and bring them back. He didn't have to ride long before finding Marie, struggling to guide her horse properly. An absent younger sister encouraged a roused brow.

"Marie!" he grabbed the silly girl's reigns and jerked her horse's head forward. "What's happened? Where is Louise?"

"Protestants!" Marie spat at him. He was repulsed by the tears and thing line of snot running down her face. Noticing that brought his attention to the sticky material dousing her face. It smelled distinctly familiar. "At the church!"

"What?!" he could put together why that would scare her, but left one question unanswered. He grabbed her chin and forced her to look into his eyes, "Where is your sister?"

"I left her at the church," her voice was listless, characteristic of anyone responding to vampiric domination.

"You _left _her there?" he disgust was palpable as he fought not to squeeze the face between his fingers.

"I was scared…I just wanted to get out of there."

He abandoned Marie where her horse stood and kicked his own into a gallop toward the church. He always knew Marie was of baser substance because she was pompous and vain, but her cowardice brought her to a new low in Sébastien's eyes. Fury filled his stomach as he dismounted from the horse and strode up to the front of the church. They had been smart and sealed the doors from the inside and rather than make a brazen scene and imitate some Arthurian idiot, Sébastien stole himself to the back of the church. His ecclesiastic resume endowed him with a greater familiarity to the common construction of churches than a normal lay person or noble. Memories of Metz and Alsace swarm as he crept into the church from the rear. A feminine keening narrowed his eyes, quickened his pace and sharpened his fangs.

* * *

One of the men grabbed Louise's black hair and yanked. Tender-headed and terrified, Louise bawled. One smacked her to make her stop. Louise felt her bottom lip split and bleed but she stopped. The man with the bow sat on the steps of the of the bema, pulling on the string like a homicidal lutanist, staring at her.

"Do you pray fat, little Catholic?" the archer questioned.

Louise stiffened with a mix of emotions. Terrified and angry, she didn't know how to respond. Her tongue came out to lick her lips and the blood that came with them but she said nothing. The same man yanked her hair again but she did not cry this time. Instead, she looked back at the man with his bow. The flickering light of the candles all around him, some in fancy red-glass containers, made him resemble like what she imagined Satan to look like. Dark shadows cast behind him were the leathery, black wings of a fallen angel and the red lambent reflecting on his skin the flames of Hellfire. She shuddered as she imagined a shadow move behind him…another demon joining his master.

"I'll ask you again," the man rose, drawing an arrow back with his bow as he took a step closer to her. "Do you pray?"

Starring up at what was surely her death, Louise assumed she would be crying. Not a single tear dared well up in her as she squared her body and glared at the man. Perhaps this was the mercy of the Lord…finding bravery in the face of heretics. This was the substance saints, accepting their torture and death with an incomprehensible fortitude that paved the way to glory. _Yes,_ Louise told herself as her back straightened,_ I shall be canonized for this. I shall be patron saint of all fat, _Catholic_ girls, honey bee fields and apple orchards._

"A fair bit more than you, I would say," she finally responded. Her voice frightened its owner with how cold and careless it resounded in the space around them.

"Audacious, Catholic whore!" she watched the man who hit her raise his raise his fist. Out of the corner of her eye, a shadow darted and before the man's knuckles touched her skin, gloved fingers tightened around his wrist. A blade rested against his throat.

For the first time since meeting him, Louise's chest swelled with relief. Baron LaCroix squeezed the man's wrist until he cried out, "Protestants…how abhorrent."

A flurry of activity happened. The man with the bow jumped sideways and aimed his arrow at Sébastien's throat or heart…Louise couldn't quite tell. The man holding her hair moved too. He yanked Louise to her feet by her lockes and forced her face upward as cold metal was pressed to her throat. She made a mousish noise.

There was a growl. Inhuman. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, heretic," LaCroix menaced.

"There are three of us and only one of you. The girl dies unless you release our friend, Catholic," her captor threatened.

"Louise…close your eyes," the baron requested. She blinked, utterly confused by this and did not immediately shut her lids. Taller, he could see this. "Do as I say!"

Louise's eyes slid closed. Sounds of terror and agony filled the sanctuary, bounding off the stone walls and stained glass windows. The sound of an arrow loosed mixed somewhere between the cries of men and gurgling. Louise felt a hot, stinging pain at her throat and the man release her hair. The man was begging. Begging and then screaming, muffled screaming. Louise heard a sickening splash of some kind close behind her and a huffing approaching her. The sound reminded her of the wolf hounds her father used to hunt with…the way they heaved and panted with blood-stained muzzles. Once, one had tried to lick her face when father returned with a dead deer and her nurse had yanked her away but not before the scent of warm claret and death wafted into her nose.

That same scent rose up now as someone moved and kneeled in front of her. This was no wolf hound, but a beast nonetheless. Louise felt her body shaking, a pain jolting through her nerves as leathery fingers stroked her throat.

* * *

The cut wasn't deep but it didn't have to be on a thin-skinned creature like her. All children seemed to have parchment paper-thin skin and thin veins just beneath the fragile veneer. Louise was bleeding and steadily, though not quickly which was his advantage. Without hesitation, he scooped her body into his arms and fled out the front door, flinging it open with an brusque kick. His horse, stupid and frightful creature in the dark, galloped off when the door swung open and he was left with little recourse but to run with her in his arms.

This lasted a minute, maybe two, before the perfume of her blood reached his nostrils. She had been terrified, up until the arrow faced her heart, and that was long enough to sweeten her crimson essence. Vitae debited while ripping the men away, Sébastien felt a bestial hunger rise up in him he could not fight. He no longer wanted to, anyway. He slowed to a walk and turned to woods flanking the road. Entering them, he kneeled against the cold earth and repositioned Louise.

Facing her, his fangs burned in his mouth. Her eyes flickered at the foliage around them and he heard her heart beat faster, smelled the fear. He lifted a hand to brush black hair from her face. He even removed his glove as gesture of comfort and uncharacteristic tenderness.

"Sssshhhh, Louise. You have nothing to fear. I'm going to take care of you," he cooed, staring into her eyes. Her heart obediently slowed and he felt her body relax in his arms. He licked his lips and lowered his head. His tongue snaked out and traced the cut on her skin with expert skill. The wound healed and he groaned as her taste teased his tongue. When he was finished, he drew his head back and stared up at the sky as he mulled on the flavor blooming in his mouth. It was so sweet…so heavy…He groaned. So hungry!

She whimpered and squirmed in his arms, her body unaccustomed to the stinging pleasure of being healed by a vampire. That weakling noise broke the last of his resolution and unleashed what he had been trying to protect her from. He snapped his attention back to her face, his thumb rubbing her cheek. He lowered his face, gliding his thumb to press against her lips, while he kissed her cheek and whispered into her ear, "Forgive me."

Then he bit.

* * *

Her body was flooded. Flooded with such unfamiliar sensations, she couldn't even place names to them! Pleasure? Pain? Ecstasy? She didn't know! What she did know was he kissed her cheek, her neck and a sharp, quick pain followed. Some part of her body arched, her lips parted and eyes slid closed. She had no idea what he was doing but he was doing it well. Was he kissing her neck or sucking her into a dark void of pleasure? Someone around her was making a sinful noise and he was holding onto her tightly, groaning into her skin. She was slipping…

* * *

She flooded his mouth like a crimson tide. Sanguine ecstasy. The delirious taste of the absolutely forbidden. He should have felt bad, guilty or abashed by his actions, especially when the ten year old in his arms made sounds similar to a well-trained courtesan. He knew full well what passions he had unearthed in her unprepared body, but the beast needed satisfying. He fed only a minute, closed the wound and pulled away. The straight-laced, seasoned soldier emerged once the last swallowed hit his stomach and he stared down at her newly enraged by his barbaric behavior.

He cradled her in his arms and resumed his journey to the chateau. She murmured and blinked up at him, stars reflecting in her blue eyes. Sébastien paused to observe them there and felt his gut tighten as flashes of earth-ground heavenly recollections dominated his mind. Decades ago the stars had fallen. Decades ago heaven had promised him a great reward and divinely appointed him by falling at his feet. And here they were again, hosting in the shreds of innocence that were her eyes.

_No…_he thought. He had to get away from this girl.


	5. Family

A/N: Don't own any of the original VtMB characters, only any invented backstory I form for them and obviously, all OCs. I think I've gotten most of the historical backdrop out of the way for these characters so things should be less historical from here on out.

_** In the minute she allowed herself to reminisce, she simultaneously let her guard down and he took the opportunity to seize the strand of silver highlighting her crown of black. Her body tensed, half-expecting him to yank the hair right out of her head but the yanking never came. Her eyes slid from the moving horizon of the Puget Sound to the pale hand holding even paler hair. His fingers were messaging the hair while the ire in his eyes, she couldn't decipher was a result of this perceived indiscretion or precursory events, unsettled the atmosphere of the car ride. Curious, she wondered if he was reminiscing too…if something about the silver stripe provoked dormant memories.**_

_** "You look like a skunk attached its tail to your face," he sneered and released the hair.**_

_** Whelp. That killed her theory. She leaned into the upholstery of the Bentley he insisted take them from her office to her home. Smirking, she decided to take a smart-aleck approach in response to his insult.**_

_** "Didn't I tell you I'd gone all Daniel Boone and use a dead animal pelt in lieu of real hair? Really is much easier to manage and I save tons of shampoo."**_

_** His glare was palpable but she didn't stop smirking, just shifted barely out of his grasp. He was never one for anything but dry humor.**_

"_**Honestly, Louisa, whatever possessed you to do it in the first place?" his eyes became scrutinous toward her bangs.**_

"_**To accommodate the rest of the skunk," she flashed a fangy smile.**_

_**He responded with little more than a growl. Her first warning. He wouldn't ask the question again. She rolled her eyes at his old-school mannerisms clothed in **__**Gieves & Hawkes.**_

"_**I wanted a change. Something to make me look," she bit the corner of her lower lip, a habit he endured for personal reasons. Truly, she had done it out of impulse but to say that may inspire a sense of disciplinary education in the man across from her. So, she stuck to a tried and true reason why she did anything he perceived as frivolous. "Older."**_

_**He leaned back and sighed as if he were exhaling all the air in his body. It was a sigh she'd heard before and seemed to accompany some anecdote about the inescapable. "Louisa, there is absolutely no reason for you to look older. Honestly, people wished they could look as we do for as long as we do."**_

_**This time it was her turn to glare, "People want to look like **_**you **_**as long as they live. Not me."**_

* * *

The attack, as horrific as it had been for Louise at the time, was cloudy and inconsistent when she attempted to recall it the next morning. The details of everything were recited to her, as the story had been told to them by Baron LaCroix. Her remembering what had happened was not important. The incident served only one purpose: as fodder for her mother's campaign against remaining at the chateau. Beatrice felt like her prayers had been answers and since she had always believed the Lord answered in mysterious fashions, she pushed aside her maternal fear for the greater spiritual treasure of obedience. Any rebuttal her father could have formed died quickly. Charles acquiesced to his wife.

The move wasn't a quick one. First, they needed actual permission from their aunt to relocate and that took about a month to obtain. From the way their mother read the letter, Marie interrupted their aunt as thrilled by their impending arrival while Louise heard a strain of their aunt's famous begrudging attitude hidden deep within the writing. Louise used her whit to determine that something had gone afoul at their aunt and uncle's estate for their aunt to be _thrilled_ about them coming to stay in a home little more than half the size of their chateau.

Then came the appropriate packing, which took another few weeks. Weeks she was forced to endure her sister fawning over the _bravery_ of Baron LaCroix, which Louise was forced to point out only accentuated her sister's own cowardice. Marie's teasing of Louise's heavy appearance encouraged a bitter rivalry between the siblings. Her absolute abandonment during a potentially lethal Protestant encounter sprouted near hatred in Louise toward her sister. All she could see beneath the thin frame and pale hair was fainthearted selfishness. She was equally disturbed by the fact that she was now indebted to the very man she loathed more than anything. Her satisfaction came from the knowledge he did not feel the same.

"You…your family, owe me nothing Louise," he had said to her days before her aunt's letter came.

"But you saved my life, so I'm told."

"You were a child in danger. I would have to be barbarian not to have _attempted_ to save you."

He hadn't talked with her anymore since. To her recollection, she had not seen hide nor hair of Baron LaCroix since that brief encounter. Her self-esteem appreciated the absence but her curiosity was stoked like a fire at the sudden change in his disposition toward her. One day he was cruel and the next apathetic to her presence. The only connecting factor was the event requiring he save her life. Her childish mind was left to infer that something had happened that night which changed his perception of her. Had she stabbed someone? Had he come upon her covered in blood? Murderous? Or as cowardly as her sister and shaking among the pews of the church? Had she wet herself? Multitudes of these questions filtered in and out of her brain over the following weeks when she was not packing, writing or praying.

* * *

Ten days! It took the lady and her daughters ten days to ride from their home to the estate of Guillaume de Dormans III, Louise's uncle by marriage to her Aunt Paulette. Louise could never understand the spite their grandmother must have had toward her elder daughter by marrying her to a man so completely opposite. If Beatrice was religious, Paulette was zealous. Her aunt was also austere, plumper and subdued in fashion. Her Uncle Guillaume, however, was bombastic, joking and as full of laughter as he was the wine his estate was famous for.

Though smaller than their chateau, the main home was surrounded by vast rows of braided vines full of grapes. While her family focused producing Gamay red wine and a variety of cheeses, her uncle Guillaume made heavy profit from the champagne he imported to other nobles and royal family. The unfortunate drawback from being so successful in the champagne industry is that her uncle was prouder of the grapes he grew than the two daughters his wife bore him. It showed in the way he thwacked his barrels with whoops of laughter and smiles as soon as they arrived, but glossed over his daughters as a painful formality. Louise felt the tension between her aunt and uncle once she stepped from the carriage.

"Beatrice! Welcome to our home!" Guillaume strode and hugged his sister-in-law tightly. "And what lovely ladies you have brought us!"

Her uncle's booming voice and swooping movements made Louise shudder a little. He swung Marie up, the attention making her giddy. Louise didn't feel the same since her heavier status made her nervous. Her uncle, unlike her father, didn't seem to care as he swung her just as easily. Perhaps moving barrels of wine and heaving baskets of heavy grapes was not much different than twirling her. Louise admitted to herself it made her feel special.

"Good to see how you girls have grown," Aunt Paulette gave them a gentle hug each, pausing a bit to size Louise up. While her daughters were plain, bordering on boring, at least they were not their cousin's size. "We'll have to put you to work, my dear!"

* * *

Work was precisely what she was put to and from work, she gained a precise understanding of why Aunt Paulette was so thrilled for them to come. In an effort to support the Catholic King against his foes, their uncle, cousin and half their male work force had gone to battle on behalf of the true faith. While Guillaume and Henri returned unscathed, the same could not be said of the servants. The whole area suffered, so Paulette used who she could to help collect the almost over-ripe Pinot noir, Chardonnay and Meunier grapes.

Louise had never worked so hard in her life. A basket strapped to her back, tossing grapes over her shoulders, Louise felt more like a servant than a noble. She was never supposed to sweat this much, ache this badly and only after one day!

"Mother, will we be doing this every day?" she asked before bed.

Beatrice smoothed her daughter's hair, "Louise, this is a blessing in many ways. We must not inconvenience our family and if picking grapes and making wine is convenient for them, then that is what we shall do."

Louise did not argue the issue of work further, since it was practically arguing her safety. She decided to change topics. This one was just as touchy, "Where was cousin Henri? He was not here when we arrived and he did not come back today."

She watched her mother tense and look away. In the bed next to hers, Louise watched Marie's eyes pop open and body incline to observe their mother's response. Beatrice chose her words carefully, "Your cousin is a tender subject presently. Please do not bring his name up around your aunt. Remember, we are not to inconvenience our family."

* * *

Henri fils de Dormans was not the son of Guillaume and Paulette, but of a woman Guillaume had been in relationship with just before he married Paulette de Foix. The woman's family sent her to a convent and the baby to Guillaume. Guillaume accepted Henri like a promise of more sons to come, as proof he seeded well. Paulette viewed him as an abomination conceived in the sin of unholy lust. When Paulette gave his father only daughters and two stillborn boys, Henri became his father's pride and joy and his wife's bane.

His half-sisters, plain and pale, told him often they prayed for his soul and that he would find the righteous path _meant _for children out of wedlock. Paulette held back the urge to spit in his face. His father taught him to handle a sword, ride a horse, make wine and choose fine women when the time came. Henri toed the line between respectful and cocky. He knew he was handsome, with a father and mother of fine blood even though he may never be fully recognized for it. He also knew if Paulette had her way, their eldest daughter would inherit and he would be shipped off to the abbey with his uncle.

If he had it _his _way, he would continue fighting for the king. He would take his sword and fight the Protestants all the way to Martin Luther's feet. Almost seventeen, all Henri was concerned about was fame and glory.

"Tell me why I'm here uncle?" he stalked after Lemoine de Dormans, Abbot of Saint-Remi.

"Your father believes you need to hone you _ecclesiastical _senses as much as sense for battle and drinking."

"My father bel-" he grabbed his uncle's arm and pulled him to a stop, shocking passing priests. "My father's _wife _believes it's better to shut me into an abbey so her unwedable daughter can inherit my father's land instead of me."

Lemoine pinched the bridge of his nose, "Henri, there is no definite guarantee of you inheriting given the nature of your parents unwedded relations."

"There is no guarantee of either of his daughters inheriting either. Alais has the face of a horse and Danielle is constantly convinced she's going to be a nun. And if neither of them wed, neither can inherit and until it become acceptable for humans to marry livestock," he smirked inwardly at the wide-eyed reaction of his uncle to his brazen illusion to bestiality, "I think my chances are good!" He ended with a smile.

"My child," Lemoine patted his nephew's arms, "Lessons in humility and sensibility would not be a poor edition to your education."

"I've been here for a month and haven't flirted with a single girl of Reims. I would say that's me being full of humility!"

* * *

"Tell us again, Louise!" Alais demanded as her feet stomped into the grapes below.

Louise looked over at her sister, whose pretty face was contorted into an ugly expression of contempt and frustration. She wasn't sure if that was because, unlike Louise, she had not found an easy slide into physical labor or that their cousin was asking to hear the story of Louise's rescue for the umpteenth time. In the weeks following their arrival, the fogginess surrounding the details of her deliverance from the hands of evil began to recede. While she nowhere remembered _perfectly_, the lines were defining themselves around the faces and circumstances surrounding the church, the Protestants and Baron LaCroix. The natural consequences for remembering fine details was reciting them over and over to feed her cousins' curiosities.

"She's told you a hundred times now! Let's talk about something else, like the King's procession," Marie snapped as she climbed into the vat to stomp grapes with Louise.

"You're just upset because you ran away like a coward," Danielle murmured from where she stomped.

"Shut up!" Marie snarled.

Louise sighed and wiggled her toes as the juice from the grapes rippled around her ankle and the skins tickled her toes. She lifted her knees high and came down on the grapes with an almost diabolical satisfaction.

"I probably would have run if I had had the opportunity, but for some reason I didn't."

"God _meant _for you to be there, Louise…Those Protestants deserved the punishment they received. They needed to die to prove God's divinity and the righteous path of our faith," Danielle proselytized, bringing a cold silence to the conversation.

Louise watched Marie scrunch up her eyes as if she couldn't fathom how she was related to such a person. She decided to intervene before Marie opened her mouth and regretted whatever came out, "Honestly, Danielle, I don't believe God ever needs to _prove_ His divinity. He especially doesn't need to prove it through the death of insignificant, spiritually confused hands for hire."

The other three girls stared at Louise. Danielle blushed with embarrassment that a cousin she had always considered borderline pagan smite her on a profound spiritual level. The other two just smirked at her, refreshed that someone had shut Danielle up for once.

* * *

Sixth months pass before Lemoine releases his nephew back into the custody of his father. No matter what Paulette may have wanted, or paid him for, Henri's unruly behavior and passionate disposition was no good for the political and spiritual wellbeing of his abbey. He loved his nephew, but saw something in his eyes prayers, meditation and understanding the asomatous questions in life would never quench.

"You have my blessings, my child," he crossed Henri and kissed his forehead, "No matter what battlefields life takes you to."

"Thank you uncle, you'll be in my prayers," and with a kiss to his uncle's hand, Henri was off for his father's home.

The ride was easy, the air still crisp in the early mornings of late Spring and he arrived home just as the buzz of dawn-based chores were coming to a close. Servants he did not recognize sat near the barn, eating pieces of bread and cheese on hay bales. Henri dismounted and handed his horse off to one of the new hands before turning his attention to the manor. Three snakes lay in wait for him but watching the men eating made him more aware of his own hunger. He strode into the manor, fully prepared to decapitated some vipers if needed.

"Father!" he called as he made his way into the kitchen, hoping Guillaume would already be sampling some of his wine. He startled the cook, instead, and was disappointed to hear his father had go off to hunt.

"Your cousin is here, though…She said she was not feeling well enough to go riding with the others," the older woman shooed him out of the kitchen after that.

"Cousin?" Henri grabbed a bowl of oatmeal and honey before being barred from further discussion. He had quite a few cousins, barely any of which he liked for the same reasons he did not like his sisters. His silent prayer was that this cousin was one of the three he did like.

Louise watched Henri scoot into the library like a rogue on the run, looking over his shoulders as if half-expecting the Spanish Inquisition to come bursting in after him. She always loved her cousin Henri, suspicious behaviors aside, because he was honest, kind and braver than anyone else she knew. He had more passion in his small finger than most people did in their entire bodies and he lived that passion without apology.

"I don't think anyone else wants that oatmeal you're eating, cousin," she leaned against the back of the daybed, her ankle elevated at the other end.

Henri jumped and shot a look at her that morphed into a broad smile. He moved over to her in the bounding steps inherited by his father, "Louise! I'm glad it's you and not any of the others!"

He dropped a kiss to her cheek, the warmth spreading from there to the rest of her, "Any of the others?"

Henri pushed her to one side to sit with her, "My other cousins, they aren't as nice as you," he flashed her a handsome smile and Louise fought what Danielle would consider sinful thoughts about him, "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Mother fears the Protestants, I was attacked by them and so she petitioned us come here to feel safer."

She watched Henri's eyes darken, his lips go slack, "You were _attacked_ by Protestants?!"

"Fear not, I was rescued and they were slain."

"How? By whom?" he shoved oatmeal into his mouth.

For the one hundred and second time since she arrived, she recounted the story for her favorite non-immediate family member. All the while, he shoved oatmeal into his mouth and honey dripped down his chin as he exemplified a startling childishness to contrast the weaponry he wore.

"And this Baron LaCroix…where is he now?" Henri asked.

* * *

LaCroix returned to Belgium, to the lucrative and expansive estate owned by his sire under the guise of needing to continue his sire's influence in that region. This gave him both an excuse to live away from de Croÿ and a means to distract himself from the weight of his unspoken, hidden sin. He threw himself into managing the estate, earning currency and political latitude among his peers and continuing his slow climb up the Camarilla ladder.

"Why did you leave? I hear that area is prime for Camarilla growth," a brunette murmured from across the room. His elder sibling, Elena, was perusing the endless categories of tomes owned by their sire.

"I left because I was needed elsewhere. Why are _you _here? I thought you lived in Spain. I thought you were charged with monitoring the uprising of the Sabbat."

"I'm here because, like you, I am always welcome in my sire's home. He also wanted me to procure him some local fare," her back was to him, but he could hear in her voice she was smirking and he hated her for it.

"Then deposit your wares and be on your way," he finished balancing the estates ledger and stood while the ink dried. He felt a hand creep over his shoulders and he fought the urge to break the bones in her hand.

"Aaawww, what's wrong Bastian? Don't like having me around?"

"Your own shadow doesn't like having you around," he plucked her hand off his shoulder.

"Now that isn't a very nice thing to say to your elder sister, especially after she received a very colorful letter for our benevolent and wise sire."

He closed the ledger and ignored the bait she hung on a flimsy lure. He didn't care what de Croÿ scribed to his vapid middle Childe. The only thing he cared about was acquiring his own domain. Everything around him stunk of his insipid sire, was tainted by the Archambaud's frivolous attempts to maintain his precious ties to a long-gone humanity. Behind him, Elena swayed from side to side with an all-too annoying eagerness to reel him in. Since all he wanted in the immediate future was for her to leave, he bit.

"What did he write you, Elena?" he turned to face her, fingers drumming against the wood of his sire's desk.

Her smirk was sinister, "Only that you found yourself a delicious little honey. Oh, what did he call her…" she snapped her fingers to the tune of LaCroix's tightening insides, "Louise? He said she's quite pale, lovely, and _young_."

"I haven't the slightest idea what he's talking about. You know how he enjoys creating something out of nothing," Sébastien slowly unwound the knot in his stomach.

"Yes, all we have to do is look around us to see how he can make something out of nothing," she motioned to the expanse surrounding them.

"You know what I mean. Yes, there was a girl named Louise, who was the daughter of the man we were doing business with and that is all."

"Oh, Bastian, lie to me all you want but never lie to yourself. De Croÿ said you _wanted_ her. He speculated you had already tried her but I think we all know that would be beyond taboo," her eyes slid up and down his figure. How he hated her, her assumptions, the way she called him Bastian and the fact that she was Spanish. She had been about forty, near fifty, when de Croÿ had sired her while touring Castile in the 1450s after a failed first Childe met their tragic Final Death. She was as boring as any other Ventrue female he had met. Unassuming brown eyes, mousy matching hair with traditional Spanish features and accent, but there was nothing unassuming about the way she angered or annoyed those around her.

"I don't appreciate your accusations that I am being anything but truthful with you, _sister_," he hissed into the space between them.

Elena took a step toward him, placing a hand on his shoulder, "I wasn't accusing you, Bastian, just making a simple observation. Your whole body went rigid when I mentioned her. Is she really that special? He also said she was fat, and we all know how you don't care for anything not visually appealing. He also described a golden-haired beauty…Maybe she's more your type. A little older since I would hate to think my sibling is tainting our bloodline by slipping into the depravity of becoming aroused by a _nine year old_."

He lost it and without putting much of his blade-sharp consideration into it, his hand flew up to wrap around her throat. In a movement too fast for mortal eyes to comprehend, he had her slammed into the wall behind the desk. The sound of her body careening into stone echoed around the room and her eyes widened with shock that he would be so brutish with her.

"She isn't nine!" he growled close to her ear, squeezing her throat. "And if you ever mention her again in my presence, or the supposition that I drank from her or she aroused a hunger in me again, I shall do all Kindred a favor and remove your head from your shoulders with my bare hands. And make no mistake, Elena, I will relish every moment of it."

She grabbed his wrist and bared her fangs, "I have fifty years on you, _boy_!" He felt her attempt to push him back, but he had the strategic advantage of eight inches on her five foot, four inch frame.

"Fifty years to do nothing but cling to our sire's coattails like a second shadow. You haven't honed a single discipline inherent to our clan through discipline because you are, at your basest, undisciplined and _common_."

He watched her eyes alight with rage as he purposefully threw in her face the most unsavory aspect of her human background. She was from no great noble family. No, she had been the daughter of a mediocre banker who managed to clutch a minimally better husband to wed. Meeting de Croÿ was most likely the result of accident than hand selection, no matter what their sire said or did to prove otherwise.

"At least I'm not aroused by children!" she spat in his face and rather than slam her into the wall once more, LaCroix spun and flung her body at two chairs. She hit them like a cannonball and splinters of wood and fabric sprayed around that section of the room. A jagged leg of one chair came to a sliding stop at his feet.

"Get out, Elena, before I feel compelled to act in such a way only one of us would truly regret."

She stood and laughed. It wasn't a small laugh or diabolic giggle, either, but a full-blown, throwing-her-head-back, body shaking, open mouth guffaw. She brushed wood and wool off her arms and torso, "You're so transparent, it makes me pity you, Sébastien. You confirm your own guilt with your thoughtless actions."

He tensed once more and rewound the last ten minutes in his mind to dissect where he could have possibly given the impression he was guilty of anything but loathing her very existence. "I have no idea to what you are referring."

"Would an innocent man bother attacking me because of a few salacious words?" hands on her hips, she grinned at him with a quirked brow. "Hmph…I bet you grieved over it, didn't you?"

"Stop it, Elena," he felt sharpening fingers puncture his palms.

"Bet your dreamt about her chubby little neck, her blood in your mouth, her-"

She didn't have time to finish her statement. He picked up the broken chair leg and in a rushing act, he ran at her and fought with her until he was driving the chair legs through her chest. She gargled something else, perhaps a plea for her worthless life before her body became completely still. She stood and rubbed his face, three open wounds languidly bleeding down his neck. His arms were the same state of tattered. He stumbled back to the desk and laughed, drawing up a piece of paper that had sat beneath the ledger's weight for most of the evening. He looked down at his elder sibling's frozen form.

"Here's the funny thing, Elena. You weren't the only one our sire wrote. Seems you made quite an enemy while in Grenada. He's very concerned for your safety…" he crumpled the letter in his hand, "What a _wonderful_, _merciful_ and _benevolent_ sire we have! Too bad he couldn't save you from the wide-spread spider's web that is Hug de Empúries. Do you know that this room has a magnificent view of the lake?" he looked back down at Elena, sensing her panic rising, "No? Well, allow me to open these troublesome curtains for you."

He flung the curtains open, moonlight spilling over him as he looked over the property owned by his sire. Perhaps he was being rash, but once angered Sébastien LaCroix took time to return to something not wicked, resentful or brash. He would correct this recklessness tomorrow…after sweeping up his sibling's ashes.


	6. Blood

A/N: I want to formally thank all reviewers, since I haven't taken the time to do so before! Though few, thank you for your encouraging words and I hope this story continues to provide you with enjoyment!

* * *

Time is a constant feature of life for Kindred and Kine, but inconstant between the species. For instance, years passed for Louise and LaCroix but neither could attest to feeling their passing the same way. Louise felt the years pass in a slow drudgery of vineyard tending, traveling and war. By age fourteen, she had lost the pounds of baby fat that caused her so much anxiety and made her an easy target for the predatory misgivings of Baron LaCroix. Louise took a firm interest in the rearing of young vines to fruitious development and then stomping the harvest to court-worthy wines. She brought what she learned from an eighteen months with her aunt and uncle and helped apply it to her father's own lands.

LaCroix, on the other hand, experienced the passage of time much like a pedestrian watching a ship go by. Time was a leisurely activity for Kindred of a certain age. To the smart and ever-conscious fang bearer, time was a commodity earning interest…a potentially endless harvest. So what were a few years but the blink of an eye to a creature who could, perhaps, live centuries?

De Croÿ never suspected Sébastien's sororicide, or at least never confronted him about the issue. LaCroix was not undone by his choice to murder Elena either, as she was neither a crucial component to their bloodline nor a profoundly contributing member of their clan. Elena had always been something of a leech in Sébastien's eyes, towing the line between groveling and bellicose whenever he encountered her. His sire did not seem to acknowledge these deficits in character, opting for an emotional closeness rather than an expeditious coalition with his second Chile that baffled LaCroix.

Regardless of its usage, time moved forward for both of them. Whether fast or slow, the sands in the hourglass brought them back into contact after almost four years.

* * *

Louise brought more than barrels of champagne to Barby after eighteen months away. Henri chaperoned his cousin's return to her chateau since Louise's mother and sister had returned home nearly a year prior. More traumatized than anyone considered, the thought of returning to home left Louise with nightmares and bed-wet-stained sheets and acting on her most maternal conscious, Beatrice left Louise in her sister's care until such a time that her daughter was healthy or needed. Henri came into play after Guillaume lost the long-fought war on his son's behalf as an inheritor to his estate when a dumpy, pox-marked son of a low-level noble agreed to marry his horse-faced daughter and left Henri subsequently disinherited and forever marked as de Dorman's bastard.

Though Reims kicked him out on his behind, Louise and her family welcomed him with open arms as an experienced warrior and distinguished member of the Catholic faith. Louise was glad to have her cousin by her side since she would need all the support she could get to survive the tumult that was preparations for Marie's impending nuptials.

"She's so giddy over the simple son of a Viscount," Louise bit into a piece of apple and smirked across the table at her cousin, sharpening and polishing his sword.

"Don't tease too much, Louise, for you shall be next," he grabbed the last slice of apple and popped it into his mouth, eyebrows waggling at her.

"Not anytime soon."

"And why is that?" he sheathed his sword and faced his cousin.

"Ask my sweet Lady Mother for distinguish qualifications of a noble bride, but I warn you that you may not be able to stomach the details," Louise rose from the table and sauntered off to help her mother fold the regalia that would constitute part of her sister's trousseau.

Her mother handled the silk and fine wool with softer hands. They shook a little as she folded the chemises Marie would wear to her marital bed. Louise frowned at the sight, since her mother had not displayed such malady when in Reims and whenever she brought the subject up, she was shut down immediately or ignored completely with a tender smile and kiss to the cheek.

"Don't indulge him too much, Louise," her mother chided.

"What do you mean?" Louise took another chemise and followed her mother's hands in how to fold it.

"I love Henri for the many good things he has done for my family. I do not hold against him the unfortunate fact that his parents were not married when he was born and think my sister cruel for manipulating him out of any financial or provincial concessions her husband may have provided him as his only living son. However, I also know Henri's ambitious tendencies and dreams overshadow his better judgment. He finds nothing wrong with openly flirting with you or leading you on under the pretenses of familial tenderness," her mother stared into Louise's eyes, a paler shade of blue.

"Mother, there is nothing between Henri and I than a bond wrought by trial and tribulation. Aunt Paulette treated him with contempt because of her husband's sins, and came to regard me as her daughter's competition. She was not cruel," she quelled the silent storm brewing behind her mother's eyes, "But she was cold, especially after Danielle had her way and joined a convent. Visitors began mistaking me for their second daughter and passed Alais over. Henri was a great comfort to me during the times when aunty's words stung a little too much to bear."

"Regardless, I only want you to be mindful Louise. You are growing into a beautiful young woman," her mother paused, pursing her lips and brows. "Which raises another concern for later, but do not be seduced by Henri's looks and earnest promises."

Louise flushed. She knew the concern her mother wished to address and would hold that conversation off as long as possible, "Lady mother, I promise you the only seductions Henri tempts me with involve stealing second or third helpings of sweet meat pies."

"Hmph…I won't have anyone questioning your purity when it comes time for your own trousseau to be folded."

* * *

When the invitation arrived, written in the best calligraphy, Sébastien turned the paper over in his hands many times before making the decision to attend. He had cut his ties to the Seyssel-Chambert family before leaving for Belgium and had not thought of any of them since washing away Elena's remnants with a bucket of scalding water. De Croÿ formally concluded business with Charles and returned to Belgium in time to relieve Sébastien of his commitment to maintain the estate. From there, Sébastien migrated southward to the burgeoning metropolis of Lyon as a means to carve a niche for himself and continue to distance himself from the indulgences of his past.

For the past few years, he had settled into his position as aide to the Scourge of the Prince of Lyon. He relished each night he was given the opportunity to pry into the private lives of unworthy Kindred who defied their prince by thinning the sacred blood with even more worthless Childer or disrespected protocol by believing they could fly amongst the shadows without paying proper tribute. With the expanding realm of Lyon, Sébastien's nights were full of tag-team hunting missions, kicking, screaming and dragging full-grown men before their betters to be rebuked like petulant children. As exhilarating as it was to have minute power over others, he admitted to himself he needed a break. So, for nostalgia's sake and the possibility of establishing his own small domain close to Lyon, LaCroix sent a letter back to Charles announcing his presence at the post-wedding festivities.

* * *

Catholics and Huguenots continued to wage war throughout France, the Armed Peace nothing more than a ghost in the country's mirror but within the walls of Charles' chateau, laughter and mirth radiated from the propitious union of Marie Seyssel-Chambert and the impending John III of Foix, Viscount of Narbonne and distant cousin to their mother. Louise found it hard to hold onto the bitterness she held against her sister when she saw how happy Marie was by being wed and the pride her parents swelled with at making such a fortuitous match.

What Louise found hard to swallow was the presence of a man she had not seen in years, nor thought of fondly when she had the predisposition to dwell on her childhood. His one action of life-saving benevolence no longer outweighed the numerous instances of cruelty and badgering. No longer short and chubby, Louise hoped any rapacious appetites LaCroix had would be directed elsewhere. If they would not be, she had Henri to protect her with sword and dagger. Her body unconsciously tensed as his icy eyes scanned the room, landed on her and directed the rest of his body on a path stopping feet from her.

"My, my, my…little Louise has certainly grown up," her took her hand and kissed the top, out of what she suspected was obligation to public etiquette and not sentimentality.

"Time has that effect on people," she took in the details of his face, "Though you seem unscathed by the hands of Father Time."

"You're far too kind. It may not always show on the exterior, but rest assured time affects even me."

Louise nodded and motioned Henri over from across the hall. Her cousin excused himself from the two young women he was speaking with and crossed the throng to stand beside her. Louise hated to admit she felt a pang of jealousy over those girls. "Henri, this is Baron LaCroix."

"Ah yes, the one from the stories," Henri gave LaCroix's hand a firm squeeze.

LaCroix returned a quizzical look, "Apparently my reputation precedes me?"

"You rescued my cousin years ago," Henri replied. "Louise was asked to recount the story numerous times while staying with us in Reims. It seems my sisters enjoyed the essence of chivalry you embodied, though Louise now pities the men you killed."

Louise watched the hired chamber ensemble gather their instruments together, "Retrospective mercy and pity, I assure you cousin."

"And I can assure you _both_, if it had been me to the rescue I would have done exactly the same thing." Henri nodded sharply, hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes already swam with the conjectured scenario.

LaCroix smirked, amusement apparent to the two he conversed with, "I doubt that but no less appreciate your enthusiasm and support of your cousin."

Before the subject could continue, the first ensemble member struck their instrument and a renewed excitement burst through the crowd as young girls squealed. They were prepping for a Volta dance and Louise felt her stomach tighten and share in the collective anticipation, her eyes taking in Henri.

* * *

Sébastien had been prepared to shrivel up from boredom. He was thankful to find distraction in the very person he had wanted to escape. She had hit a much-needed growth spurt, shot up six inches and shed all the bulging weight that made her such an easy target. Whatever she had done in Reims had done her wonders. She was svelte, almost angular had it not been for the pallor of her skin that made her come across as soft and fleshy where she ought to be. LaCroix could sense she had an awareness of her new-found allure but found it fully entertaining she was throwing it all at this cousin of hers. If she didn't understand he wasn't interested, or only interested to the extent it served him, then she was just as asinine and silly as her elder sister. The doe-eyed look she directed at Henri made Sébastien ill.

"Well, I promised _that_ Baron's daughter the first dance. If you'll excuse me, Baron LaCroix," Henri nodded to Sébastien then lifted Louise's hand to kiss, "Cousin."

He watched Louise deflate when he walked away, jealousy rim her eyes as Henri took the hand of another young girl mere years Louise's elder. The music began picking its pace and before his better judgment could say anything, LaCroix took Louise's hand and led her onto the floor with the other men and women.

"What are you doing?!" she whispered with unappreciative surprise. Her reaction didn't stop her from flowing into the steps.

"It looked like you wanted to dance. You seemed upset when your cousin did not offer you his hand and it would have been completely ungentlemanly of me to just walk away," he wrapped his arm around her back, his palm against her hip and he clenched as he lifted her into the air and turned the both of them in sync with the other dancers.

"Pardon my saying so, but you have never fought hard to present yourself as a gentlemen," she moved away from him to twirl with the other women.

He wasn't able to comment and didn't care to. It was true, he never felt compelled to be a gentlemen since he was more concerned on establishing himself as solid businessman and politician. Abiding by the flippant ways of romantics made him nauseated and he would rather be called ruthless than chivalric any day. Even dancing with her now made him feel foolish and doubt how well he had buried the conduct of the past. Her aroma wasn't the same now that she was entering womanhood, but still not changed enough not to be mouthwatering. After more cycles of the dance, holding her to his side and lifting her like a feather, he took her hand and led her back to the outskirts of the dance floor.

"Thank you very much," Louise folded her hands in front of her, a noticeable tint to her cheeks.

"My pleasure," LaCroix gave her a small bow, excused himself and turned to find someone appropriate to feed from.

* * *

Louise went to bed well past midnight, after the last of the drunken nobility either stumbled to their carriages or were shown to their rooms. In the new found emptiness of her room, Louise was left to speculate the state of marriage, the frivolity it engendered and its future usefulness to her. Her sister's bed had been removed and place in another room for a guest, creating a spacious blank space in the room that would be filled in soon enough. She thought of her sister, giddy and squealing, preparing for her first night as a married woman and for a journey that would take her far from home.

Her heart tightened when she considered her future could take her equally far away, unless Jean passed away before marrying and siring a son of his own. This could be possible, as Jean's condition was no better and no line of lovely or unlovely ladies waited in high hopes of marrying him. Then again, she was no closer to matrimony since she had yet to cross the first threshold to womanhood and this fact, alone, caused such concern in her mother that Louise worried her lack of development was a source of her mother's apparent ill health.

A knock at her door distracted her from finagling her hair out of the design would about her head and any future thoughts of her mother's health, her own body or marriage. Right fingers stuck in black tresses, she opened the door with her free hand and frowned at Henri's drunken, sluggish body as it leaned in her doorway with a sloppy smile.

"There's a drunk man in my bed, I was wondering if I could stay in here tonight…"

"Henri, I think we both know that wouldn't be a good idea," she did not move from the doorway, lest she encourage his idea of remaining with her.

"Louise, you know I won't hurt you," his hand came up and brush hair from her eyes, trailed its fingertips down her cheek. "You looked so lovely tonight…you look lovely now." He bent his head, intentions clear and Louise's head turned to catch his lips with her cheek.

"Really? I wouldn't have guessed you thought that, given the wealth of your attention went elsewhere tonight," the venom and petty jealousy in her voice surprised her.

"Would you see me kicked to the streets then? If I attended to you the manner in which I desired, your mother and father would kick me out faster than my own dear Papa," he said close to her ear. She could smell the wine and ale on his breath. "Louise, _please_. I'll sleep in the corner and be out before dawn."

Louise licked her lips and stared into the darkness of the hallway beyond her room. Adjacent was the remainder of the hallway and a spiral staircase leading to a back entrance to the grand hall and kitchen. Anyone could be standing there, spying on them. She felt hundreds of eyes watching and judging her actions, sitting ready to condemn her should she let him stay or praise her should she make him go. Henri leaned away from the doorframe and into her to use his inebriated coordination as justification for quartering himself in his virgin cousin's room.

"Henri, I think you better go kick that man out of your bed because I would be breaking a promise to my mother if I let you stay," her hands pressed him backward, but he didn't budge much. She watched the expression on his face sour when he realized his smooth talk and handsome façade weren't getting him what he wanted.

"And what promise did you make exactly? Not to sleep with your _bastard_ cousin Henri?" his tone became vicious and his hands gripped her shoulders. She chalked this snap in temper to his drinking. "Is being with me that damaging to your precious chastity? Are you so like Paulette that you'd treat me like a leper for simply wanting a place to sleep?"

Louise didn't get an opportunity to answer before someone yanked him out of the room and into the hallway.

* * *

LaCroix couldn't stay in his designated room one minute longer. The snoring of old men, groaning of intoxication and squeaking of beds as sleepers turned hacked at his patience. He had no business to distract himself with, leaving him only to wander the property and chateau as a means of entertainment. Dawn was hours away and he still had the pungent taste of a Count on his palette. He contemplated finding something of better substance within his sanguine preference, even made his way through the kitchen to the back door when his ears captured the sound of conversation.

A spiral staircase amplified the voices that, to mere mortals, may have been nothing but whispers. For LaCroix, it was like a chorus and he could hear the changing inflections and tones as the conversation moved from pleading to accusing. The fact that Louise and Henri were the choir whetted his interest and he climbed the stairs at a leisurely pace, stopping to watch them from the stretch of corridor neither were paying attention to. When Henri's hands moved out of Sébastien's line of sight, he felt a sensation prick his chest. When Henri pushed himself further into the room, LaCroix all of a sudden had enough. Neither knew what to think when he grabbed Henri and dumped him on his behind outside the room.

"I do believe the young lady told you to go," he towered above Henri, fighting a snarl.

Henri stumbled to his feet, swaying slightly, "No one asked you to interfere. This is a family matter-"

"Be silent and stop embarrassing yourself more than you already have," LaCroix ignored the boy and turned to look at Louise. His muscled cramped at the sight of her standing in her chemise and nothing else. Her hair was down and she had pulled it to one side, accentuating her neck. She toyed with the strands nervously. His mouth watered. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, "No, he didn't hurt me…he's drunk and won't remember this in the morning."

"Insobriety is no excuse for reckless and wanton behavior," LaCroix explained and turned his head, coming in contact with Henri's fist. It felt like being hit with a pillow, or perhaps a broom and he had to concentrate hard to create the proper facial expression a normal man would display when punched.

Henri understood his mistake immediately, eyes going wide with pain and confusion…but mostly pain. Sébastien guessed it must have felt like punching stone. For appearance sake, he rubbed his cheek and watched Henri cradle his hand. Henri's knuckles were bleeding and LaCroix fought an urge to bite him as retribution for the attempted attack. He grabbed Henri by the collar of his shirt and made sure the boy was staring him square in the eyes.

"_Go to your room. Go to sleep._" He commanded. Dazed and incapable of disobeying his orders, Henri retreated down the hallway and disappeared around a corner.

Sébastien turned to look at Louise once more. She had moved out of her room and stood beneath moonlight spilling in from a nearby window. The rays returned to her the childish innocence he craved years ago and, paired with her subduing shocked expression, he remembered the ideal prey she made.

"Seems I do nothing but rescue you," he half-joked with his dry humor.

"I'm sorry for that. I shouldn't have opened the door."

"No, you should not have. Perhaps you will remember this for future encounters with your cousin," his voice was curt. He wasn't the same man since his previous, impetuous actions bred mild paranoia in his brain and he needed only recall the encounter with Elena to know his paranoia was not unwarranted. De Croÿ had suspected Sébastien's transgression, perhaps even bared witness to it and he couldn't give anyone else an opportunity to call taboo on him. No matter how she delicious she looked in the pale, midnight stream of radiance. He placed his hands on her upper arms and stared into her eyes. "_Go to sleep_."

She turned from him mechanically and walked into her room. She closed the door behind her and he could hear the squeak of her bed as she climbed beneath the covers. He cracked his neck from side to side and sighed, "Sweet dreams."

* * *

Neither Louisa nor Henri spoke of the events that took place that night or even looked at one another in such a way as to recognize the situation had transpired. LaCroix did not apparently speak of the endeavor to anyone because Louise did not feel the sting of castigation from those around her. Henri did not apologize either, which created a wedge between the two of them made of mutual anger, mistrust and shame. Louise knew Henri felt slighted by the thought that she viewed him no better than his step-mother and sisters had and she feared he regarded her only for the sole purpose of accomplishing the ambitious dreams her mother accused him of having.

"You've been awfully quiet, Louise…Is everything alright?" her mother reached across the table and gave her hand a squeeze. This broke her from the deepening hole of thought she found herself in.

She gave her mother a smile and kissed the top of her hand, "Just feel a little ill is all."

Beatrice, who looked unwell herself, frowned and lifted a hand to her daughter's forehead, "You don't feel feverish."

"My stomach is unsettled, mother," she closed her eyes and relished the cool of her mother's palm against her skin. It reminded her of when she was little, her mother stroking her hair through stormy nights and telling her grand stories of the royal court.

"Perhaps it's something you ate," her mother pulled her hand back and returned to peeling the apple she had been working on before interrupting Louise's ruminating. Louise watched a distinctive look rise over her mother's face. It was the notorious stare of every all-knowing maternal figure who suspected their children, or children in their care, were delivering aversive answers to significant questions. At the same time, it was a look that let the child in question know that the figure before them _knew_ and wanted them to _know_ they _knew_. Beatrice's lips quirked, her eyes sliding to the elongating peel of the apple she skillfully created with every movement of her knife, "Or _perhaps_ it has something to do with a certain cousin of yours."

Louise felt nervous beneath such a countenance and averted her eyes to the bowl of peeled apples she was supposed to be cutting up for the cook, "What do you mean?"

"You and Henri, until today, have been attached at the hip. Where you go, he is not far behind. Where he goes, there is some surety you will follow unless expressly told otherwise."

Louise felt a salty taste rise to her mouth, her stomach church. "We had a disagreement of sorts. He hasn't moved passed his pigheadedness enough to apologize for his part in the spat."

Beatrice found this an acceptable answer, "I see. And what was this disagreement about?"

"We…I…" Louise swallowed several times, felt the color drain from her face. She twisted from the table, watched Beatrice rise from her seat out of the corner of her eye and vomited over the kitchen floor.

* * *

After she finished emptying her stomach onto the stone floor of the kitchen, her mother had sent her upstairs to change out of her clothes and remain in bed the rest of the day. Louise felt an awful pain in her lower abdomen and worried that she had contracted some awful illness from someone at the wedding. She refused any food offered her, too afraid eating would provoke another wave of nausea. Her mother pressed the cool of her hand and damp cloths to her face until Louise was fast asleep.

When she woke, the moon was high in the sky and shining through the glass of window. She had rolled onto her stomach somewhere between different dreams and a tingling feeling rolled over her arms as she pushed herself up. The pangs from earlier were gone and her stomach roared with hunger. She wasn't sure there would be anything available to eat, but that had never stopped her from rummaging in the past. She slid from bed and wrapped in a dressing gown before trekking down the spiral staircase to the kitchen. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness and as quiet as she could be, she searched for something to eat.

"What are you looking for?" came a voice from behind.

Louise about jumped out of her skin and swallowed a scream. She whirled to face LaCroix, whom she did not even know was still staying with them. Hand pressed to her chest, she inhaled a large gulp of air, "Don't _do_ that! Where did you even come from?!"

She couldn't make out his face in the darkness, but somehow knew he was smirking at her. He stepped closer and motioned in the direction of where her parents' room was located, as well as a few guest rooms, "I heard something and came to investigate."

"From all the way over _there?_ I can't hear anything from the kitchen and my room is almost directly above," her eyes narrowed a bit.

"My ears are better than yours, perhaps."

"I think you're lying," she said before she could stop herself or consider the ramifications of the statement.

Closer now, she could see his eyes narrow. He took another step toward her, "I don't appreciate my character being challenged." When she did not respond, nor contort her facial expression to one of contrition, LaCroix sighed. "Fine, I couldn't sleep so I decided to gather my things for my return trip to Lyon."

"Oh, I didn't know you were that close. I thought you had returned to Belgium," Louise resumed scavenging.

"I did, but only for a little while before business called me to Lyon. What are you looking for?" Louise felt him close behind her. An icy sensation went up her back.

"Food. I was sick earlier today and haven't eaten since breakfast," she managed to find a meat pie and something made from the apples she had been helping her mother cut when she threw up.

"Yes, your father informed me. I'm glad to see you're feeling better but do you think it wise to eat _those_ if you're still ill?"

Louise turned and almost jumped a second time. LaCroix was directly behind her and if she had to put a label on the way he looked at her, she would say _hungry_… the same way she was looking at the pies in her hand. "I feel much better. And very hungry. You look the same...would you like one?"

"No, I don't care for meat or fruit pies. Are you sure you feel well? You don't look well at all…" He motioned downward. Confused, Louise followed his moving finger.

She squeezed the two pies in her hand, feeling their gooey insides spill into the crevices between her fingers. A large, dark stain ran down the bottom length of her chemise. Panicking, she dropped the crushed pastries and gripped the stained material with shaking hands. There was no foul smell to accompany this stain, so she had not soiled herself in her sleep. A firm grip on her arm guided her from the cimmerian state of the kitchen to the soft glow of firelight in his room.

Now she could see that the stain was red and when she lifted the stained linen, the ruddy material dyed her legs as well. She dropped the cloth and looked up at Sébastien, tears brimming in her eyes. He panicked and patted her awkwardly on the head. To her, it looked like he was fighting revulsion and amusement.

"D-don't cry, Louise."

"How can I not cry?! I'm bleeding to death!" Louise stiffened as she felt a trickle slowly progress down the inside of her thigh.

Baron LaCroix suddenly stepped backward, hand moving to his face. He glanced nervously about the room, seemingly anywhere but at her, "Y-you're not bleeding to death. Hasn't your mother," he coughed, inched toward the door, "_discussed_ this with you?"

"N-no! I heard her mention something about bleeding to my father years ago…Is this what she meant?" she wiped tears from her cheeks. She was so thoroughly embarrassed, disgusted and frightened that she wasn't sure which of the three to feel more. Somehow she knew this was not how this situation was supposed to happen. "Can you _please_ go get my mother?"

It was like she had granted LaCroix absolution. Relief came over him and he was out the door faster than she could conceive capable, but she didn't care as long as he brought her mother to her just as quickly.


	7. Death

A/N: I must feel exceptionally inspired to be writing this much in such a short time! Again, I do not own LaCroix, only the fabricated background invented for him. I also suggest listening to **"A Howling Wilderness**" (by Trevor Morris), from The Tudors, while reading a _**certain** _sectiontoward the end of the chapter. You'll know which one I am talking about. Reviews appreciated! Enjoy! *leaves a box of tissues*

* * *

The entry into womanhood is for Louise what she supposed the Sistine Chapel was for Michelangelo: a concept dream and discussed with glorious anticipation until the moment of arrival when all humanity's vices rear their ugly heads to spoil the dream, chief among them self-preservation and avarice. A health red flow not only confirmed Louise's on-going development, but simultaneously made her marketable to all prospective sons-in-laws. It baffled Louise that a condition distinctive to her sex, leaving her bed bound and bleeding for five days (in which she does not _die_), somehow makes her exponentially more attractive to the opposite gender, when nature clearly dictates they should run to the hills screaming.

Baron LaCroix was gone by the next day and with him, all the humiliation of her unfortunate discovery that she was no longer a girl, but bridal material. He had brought her mother to her, as promised, then left them to their discussion and said not one more word to her. She could only conceive her own embarrassment, not how he must have felt but it must have not been so great a chagrin that he felt compelled to apologize or offer his sympathies. As a man of stone, she imagined him to take it in stride the way he appeared to take everything else.

For Louise, though, it was not the hand LaCroix had to play in her biological graduation that was most unnerving but the sudden decision of her parents to send Henri from their house. No details were given to her, aside from the fact that it was impressed upon Henri to conduct himself on a religious pilgrimage by his uncle in Reims. Instead of fighting the issue, Louise watched Henri acquiesce without so much as a whimper of complain. The sun hadn't risen, not even become a thin warm line on the horizon the morning he left and abandoning propriety, Louise left her bed to see him off in the darkness before dawn.

"You cannot go and leave me here all alone," Louise pulled her dressing gown tighter around her to ward off the cool of lightless morn.

"You are hardly alone, Louise. You have your mother, father and brother. And soon," he hefted a saddle from its stand and carried it outside, "You shall have a husband to care for you."

She watched him saddle his horse, feeling her heart crushing and pumping in every beat. They had been partners in the most wondrous of exploits, possibly even crimes, for years now to the extent that he had even managed to usurp the precious pedestal her brother usually inhabited. "Is that why you are leaving so defeated? Because I may be married some day?"

"So defeated?" she heard him laugh to himself as he saddled the horse. Then he turned to her and took her hand, "My uncle has secured me a place in the home of the Medici family upon the completion of my excursion to Rome. Cosimo I de' Medici has an order…The Order of St. Stephen, approved by _the Pope_, himself. Louise," he squeezed her hand. "I serve the Medici family, do their bidding, protect them from harm and I get a clean slate. I have a chance to put this _bastard_ past behind me for good! And then…"

"You will come back?" her eyes stung.

He cupped her face, a thumb wiping her cheek with one stroke, "Of course. You are the only family I have." They stood there, silent and staring as the horizon behind them paled at its base. Love and romance never occurred to them who are busy with life, its joys and tragedies and even in their frivolity, she and Henri barely dared conceive feelings for one another beyond innocent flirtation…petty jealousies.

Henri bent his head and kissed her lips. His lips were warm, tasting of the remnants of honey and apples. Behind her eyelids burst the light of a hundred stars, stringing into constellations like none she had ever seen in the night sky. He pulled back from the kiss, stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, and just as the sun rose to chase the stars away, she opened her eyes to his departure. She swallowed some alien lump in her throat as he mounted his horse. He smiled down at her, "I will come back for you."

She laughed, encouraged by the idea even though she suspected he would find his own way in Italy. She smiled at him and nodded, "Go with my blessing and love."

The sky behind him lightened and she watched his face contort with ghastly shadows, ripping across his face like black blades. A shiver came over her and somewhere around them, an owl cried out one last call before disappearing to its bed. "What is it, Louise?"

"Either my eyesight fails, or you look pale," she walked to the side of his horse, petting the animal's neck before looking him in the eyes, "As one dead in the bottom of a tomb."

Henry shifted in his saddle and reached down to stroke her cheek a final time, "And trust me, love, in my eyes… so do you."

* * *

A year passed and the closer to sixteen Louise became, the larger her father's delusions of grandeur grew. Neighboring sons of counts no longer made the cut according to Charles' illustrious status quo he shared with no one else but God. Her father began reaching out to families tested, and found favorable, by the hands of time and etches of history, like the glory-hungry Guises. Handsome as their sons were, Louise would rather remain a virgin than submerse herself in the political melodrama that came with that family.

Circumstances changed though, when a freak snap in the weather caught an abnormally athletic Jean off guard. A rebound in his health sported her brother a long desired opportunity to go hunting with Charles. The sun had been high in the sky, air warm and the surrounding forest teaming with bucks in rut, does in heat and the elk that got caught in the middle of their distant cousins' sexual frenzy on their own migration to safe breeding grounds. It was for everyone concerned, a perfect day to hunt and to hope or ask for better was tantamount to heresy. That made it all the more heartbreaking when a rush of cold breeze brought ugly, dark clouds over the land not two hours into their trip. Too far away to turn back and in too deep to find shelter, the whole party suffered through an hour of torrential rain and wind gusts that dropped the temperature while simultaneously knocking limbs off trees.

The only reward for their soggy state of affairs was a medium buck too stupid to bother taking shelter from the storm some place where men with bows and arrows would not find him. The men returned soaked, chilled and shivering. Jean took to bed that night with a fever and three days later, he was dead.

Her mother's grief was absolute: a black pitch of depression centered on the fact that she had not only had her child predeceased her, but her first born child at that. Louise could no more console her mother than she could bring her brother back to life. Her father, pale and stupefied, holed up in the library with his thoughts and revelations that now he had no living male heir to pass his wealth, land and title to. Louise suspected he not only mourned the loss of a child, but the dream that went along with him. For Louise, there was comfort in the notion that her brother was no longer in pain; that somehow, his long enduring ailments in life granted him a cushy spot in Heaven somewhere between martyr and saint. There was a subtle ache in her chest in the days that followed as the heaviness that her closest sibling was gone. The only constructive action she found able to take was writing to Henri that Jean was gone. Without so much as a word from him since he departed, she was unsure he even cared now that he had achieved all he wanted in seizing the opportunity to rise above what birth provided him.

They made the trek to Lyon, to the Cathédrale Saint-Jean-Baptiste where her family's bones took up residence in a section of catacombs beneath the awe-inspiring sanctuary, as an eternal gratitude for the money they provided in constructing the monolith centuries ago. Relatives and fellow gentry came to pay respects to her deceased brother, kissing her mother on the cheeks and speaking in grave tones to her father who appeared as absent from the funeral as he had when Jean initially passed.

She was touched by all those came, sad that her sister could not be there due to being ripe with child and surprised when Baron LaCroix showed up to give his condolences. When she was told a visitor had arrived, her heart fluttered with the hope Henri had come. The glow of that hope must have shown on her face because LaCroix gave her an odd expression, complete with raised brow when she felt her body deflate.

"Not who you expected?" He handed his cape and cane to the butler.

"No, not quite. I suppose you're here to give my father and mother your sympathies," she walked with him toward the study where she assumed her parents were.

"I am and extend them to you, as well. I am sorry I was unable to attend the funeral. I, too, have lost siblings and understand the great grieving their absence creates."

She nodded, "There is a hole in my mother I fear shall never be filled. The thought of an impending grandchild, which once brought her so much pleasure now barely brings her solace. Father is not much different. He throws himself into work and when that offers no distraction, he hunts but catches nothing of worth."

"I cannot imagine the loss of a child," LaCroix's voice sounded hollow, bordering on unsympathetic. "And what about you? If memory serves, Jean was quite the support for you when you were little."

"Yes, he taught me to read and write better than my own tutors. He read me stories from Chaucer and wrote the most beautiful poetry."

"Chaucer? And, pray tell, which is his stories did you favor?"

"The Merchant's Tale," she smiled, perhaps the first time since Jean passed.

* * *

LaCroix's presence had nothing to do with passing along an impractical emotion as sorrow because a mortal's sickly child had finally died. The death, however, served his purposes perfectly as he needed to renew the business with Charles as a means to expand his own domain in Lyon. Without an heir, Charles' estate and wealth were now in a perilous predicament and if he could, Sébastien had an opportunity of profiting of the man should he meet his own end, untimely or no. All that stood in his way was a pregnant daughter on the other side of France and her idiot husband.

"What will your father do now that he has no heir?" he looked down at Louise.

She stared out into space. When she responded, her attention was clearly elsewhere, "That is something you will have to ask him. There is always my sister's husband. If my sister had a son…"

"And what about _you_?"

"Hopefully I will be married."

Charles looked like a man devoid of purpose and his wife, a creature better suited to wander the halls of an abandoned graveyard than those of a noble chateau. They stood to greet him and he kissed the lady's hand, wrinkling his nose at the putrid aroma rising from her skin. He offered his played-up consolations before asking to speak with Charles the next evening. Neither seemed to care enough to refuse him.

* * *

Sorrow is a heavy-handed and ravenous beast. Louise came to believe in the following weeks that it would not be sated until it devoured her heart entirely. She watched her mother waste away, day after day, with nothing but prayer and repentance to feed her since she found no sustenance in the food brought to her. Her chest tightened every morning she came to her mother's side and swore the circles around her eyes darkened overnight. If she didn't understand her mother's strong faith better, Louise thought her mother was purposefully withering away as penance for allowing her eldest child, and only son, to die before herself. To make matters worse, Louise was robbed of any expectation she may find strength and support in her cousin Henri…everything stolen by two sets of penmanship.

* * *

LaCroix found her in a disregarded room on the opposite side of the chateau from where he and her parents slept. She sat on the bed, shoulders rising and shuddering while her head hung low against her chest. Never good with human emotions, nor one to care for them when displayed to his person, LaCroix found himself at an absolute loss with how to comfort Louise's tears. These weren't the same kind of tears he had once tempted from her eyes when she was little to feed his beastly desires. No, these were the raindrop tears of a broken heart. Sébastien never loved anyone in his life enough to cry over them the way she did now. Love was a labor lost upon him.

"Louise, what's wrong?" he approached where she sat.

She looked up at him, cheeks soaked and eyes glistening with more rain. His muscles tensed, something beautiful in her tears. She bit the corner of her bottom lip, "Henri is dead."

"What?"

She looked down at her lap, two letters open there. Her throat delivered a choked laugh while her right hand stroked the paper of one letter, ink smudged by fallen tears, "They brought me two letters. One was from Henri. He said he was leaving Italy…that he was coming back to me. He said I was beautiful and that he loved me. Then I read this second letter from someone he worked for." She stopped talking and LaCroix could see the pain in her eyes, her mouth afraid to form the words.

He kneeled and slid the second letter from her lap. She didn't bother to stop him, just bit the same corner of her bottom lip and cried silent tears. Sébastien scanned the letter and read it out loud so she would not have to say it herself, "To the dearest cousin of Henri de Dorman, loyal servant of the de Medici family. It is with a heavy heart I inform you our servant, Henri, has been slain-" He felt her feather-light hand on his wrist, pale fingers wrapping around the cuff of his shirt and stopped reading since it was clear to him she had memorized the letter, or always stopped after absorbing that word.

"S-slain…He went to make a better life for himself and he ends up dead," she choked again, gripping his wrist. LaCroix felt the core of his being unsettle itself the longer he watched her tears and heard her pain. "H-he told me they would wipe the stain of his parents sin away. He wouldn't be a bastard anymore," she hiccupped, "Do you know they can't even find his _body_?"

"Y-yes, I read that," he avoided her eyes by looking back down at the letter. Seems all they found were his bloody doublet, two dead compatriots among the streets of Florence and left to conclude Henri had also been killed but left somewhere else.

"I can't even say good-bye to him…can't bury him with his family. I won't ever see him again."

LaCroix was struck by the hopelessness in her voice. She acted as if someone had told her she had little time to live, that live was meaningless or her prayers had no response. He wondered if she mustered this kind of grief for the passing of Jean, but suspected not since Jean has always lived with one leg in the grave while Henri had been robust and a constant example of life. Tears surged in her eyes once more and flowed down her cheeks like tiny creeks. With minds of their own, his fingers lifted and brushed them away.

* * *

"She had a girl!" Charles' fingers practically pulled out his hair as the frustration, which had been building since they laid his son to rest, erupted through his body.

"A beautiful baby girl," Louise commented while opting to ignore the dissatisfaction swallowing her father's outburst.

"A _useless_ girl," Charles stalked away from his daughter and the Baron, choosing the solidarity of his study over the communal feeling of the hall.

Louise shook her head and took her mother's hand. It felt like a small bird in her palm, soft and hollow with a pulsing heartbeat. "She is beautiful and they are both doing well. Marie wishes you could have been there."

Beatrice smiled at her youngest daughter, rubbing her thumb over Louise's fingers. For a moment, Louise allowed herself to believe her mother was disrobing herself from the outfit of maudlin she had dawned since Jean's burial. At the same Louise had to embrace the conclusion that her mother would never be the woman she once was and not just because she had lost a son, but because whatever malady weakened her mother at the time of Marie's wedding had overtaken the beautiful lady. She had lost significant weight, her hair thinned and the shadows around her eyes now seemed like ink stains. Instead of the halls resounding with her mother's music or management, putrid melodies of retching echoed.

Louise forced a cheerful smile, though she was finding many things not to be cheerful about, "They named her Elizabeth and they said they would try to bring her when they come for the Christmas season."

Her mother sighed, "Wonderful. Don't mind your father, he is happy on the inside." She stretched her hand out to LaCroix, "Thank you for going with Louise. It brought my husband great comfort to know someone we trust was caring for our daughter."

"It was nothing, my Lady," Louise watched LaCroix kiss her mother's. "I was doing business there and to be honest, it was more my men taking care of her than I."

"Still…" her mother took a deep breath, giving Louise and LaCroix their cue.

* * *

"You ought not to have lied to her," LaCroix rebuked as they watched her mother head for her room.

"What would have me do?" Louise looked up at him. "They said they would try and if that gives her hope then why not tell her?"

"If you say so."

"Baron," LaCroix heard her voice tighten, "You have known my Lady Mother for years now…She's not going to get better, is she?"

Sébastien closed his eyes, not wanting the pleading in hers to influence him anymore than they already had as of late. He especially did not want to look into those cerulean spheres as he told her the inescapable truth of her mother's condition. LaCroix opened his eyes and looked down the hall where the lady disappeared, "Not without a miracle."

"Then I shall pray for such a miracle," and off she walked.

LaCroix didn't watch her go, deciding to go after Charles instead. Finding him was as much a chore as drinking blood. At least he displayed more vim and vigor than he had in weeks passed with his uninterrupted pacing. Sébastien took a seat on a couch and waited for Charles to stop.

"A girl…she had a girl. Useless, useless, useless!" Charles chanted.

"But the child was healthy, which promises healthy sons for the future," LaCroix commented.

"God willing!" Charles spun to look at a man he perceived as a friend. "I may not have the time to wait for her to produce a son, who would be his father's heir before mine! I cannot trust my estate and fortune to a child I may never meet, or who may never exist!"

"There _is_ another way, Charles," LaCroix cooed.

"What?! What way?!" he answered like a thirsty man at a well.

"You still have Louise."

"Louise…who is barely a woman, unmarried and untested! Making her my heir would be as risky as naming Marie's future son my heir…"

LaCroix smirked, weaving his influence into his words and working his master plan, "Be rational, Charles. Marie _could _have a son, but she could also have nothing but daughters. She could also die in childbirth, or of illness and then what?"

"The same could happen to Louise," Charles voice was soft as he sat beside LaCroix, never breaking the gaze.

"But consider what Marie already has, what her sons will have. Everything her husband has, she has. If, Heaven forbid, you were to die before Louise was married…she would have nothing to broker a marriage with, if everything is willed to her sister's unborn child. She and her husband would be the managers of the estate until said _possible_ child comes of age. And then that is no guarantee they will take care of this estate, or even come to see it again. But Louise is _tied_ to this place, invested in it and can continue making this estate profitable once you have passed. Her inheriting will ensure her prosperity and the prosperity of your descendants as remaining Marquisates."

"She has no idea how to manage this estate…no concept of business," Charles bit his lip, wrung his hands.

"Then, _perhaps_, you should make sure she has proper tutelage should you pass before she marries. All you need so is write a clause in your will stipulating a guardian preside over her education and marriage proposals until such a time she can manage for herself."

Charles began nodded, a haze over his demeanor, "Yes, that makes sense. But who would I choose for such a task?"

Sébastien smiled, near menacingly at him, "_Charles_, you and I have been friends and partners for years."

"Yes, but you're not family."

LaCroix gripped the man's wrist, "Look at me," Charles stared into LaCroix's face after darting his gaze about the room, "_Tomorrow_, you will meet with your priest and other appropriate participants and construct your will. _You will name Louise your heir and __**me**__ as her guardian_."

Charles nodded and repeated what he was ordered. LaCroix grinned and released his grip on the man. He stood, leaving the man dazed while he filled a glass with wine. He had one last thing to do this evening. Sébastien took his dagger from his side and punctured a small hole in his wrist, allowing a single drop of precious vitae to splash into the wine. He swirled the glass, cleaned his wrist then returned to where Charles sat, regaining his will.

"Now, give this wine to your wife."

"Why?" Charles rubbed his eyes and stood to take the glass.

"Because she is sick, probably thirsty and your youngest child is praying earnestly for a miracle."

* * *

Her mother looked better, but not by much. This did not stop Louise from taking the perk in her health as a sign of good faith from the Man Upstairs and believing miracles _could_ happen. Beatrice made it through the Christmas holiday season, whereupon she encountered her first grandchild. Elizabeth brought a renewed joy to the eyes of her mother and Louise was resolute she should never see that kind of light fade from her mother's eyes until the woman was near a century old.

But for every light, there is a dark. And for every life, there is an end. Beatrice's came toward the end of February. It started after she could no longer eat, then no longer drink but small sips of water or broth, followed by the bloody vomit. Her very appearance seemed to decay to a shallow shell of her former self. Louise's heart snapped with each deterioration until it was nothing but broken pieces within her chest the night she said her goodbye.

Beatrice was propped on pillow, face made more pale by the purple rings around her closed eyes. But when she opened them, Louise could see where her own blue irises were born. Her father, a priest and Baron LaCroix stood just inside the room, giving the two enough space. Louise sat on the edge of her mother's bed, leaning to stroke her mother's hair and hold her dainty hand.

"Remember to pray for your father, your sister and her husband, and for little Elizabeth," her mother's voice was so soft.

"I will," Louise nodded, her eyes stinging. "And I will pray for you and you will get better, like before." Her voice sounded childish, quivering but stubbornly hopeful.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw all three men bow their heads. Beatrice smiled and lifted her hand to her daughter's cheek, "Not this time, mon bébé."

"No, please…Maman," Louise turned her head and kissed her mother's palm.

"I love you, my sweet Louise. And I shall _always_ love you."

Louise heard herself choking down sobs, felt her throat tighten and her chest burn with pain. She looked back at her mother through tear-filled eyes, "_Please, __**please**__,_ don't leave me."

Beatrice simply smiled on, wiped at her daughter's falling tears and drew her close to kiss her forehead, "God bless you, sweet baby of mine."

Louise felt her mother fall away from her and panicked, "No…No! No! _**Please!**_"

She felt strong arms wrap around her waist and lift her away from her mother to give space to the priest. She fought violently, scratching with one hand and reaching out to her mother with the other, "Mother, please don't go!"

* * *

Sébastien carried her away from her mother as gently as he knew how to do, though she fought like a feral animal the entire time. She didn't need to see it…the gruesome and undignified way her mother would depart from this world. Not with a simple shutting of her eyes, but with a despicable release of the bowls. No, he wanted her to remember her mother with a faint smile on her face and blessing on her tongue. She writhed and scratched and he twisted her around to carry her like an infant to her own room. When she realized he was not going to carry her back, when she would not see her mother alive again, she broke down into awful sobs against his breast.

He could hardly explain the wrenching sensation he felt inside, but he had little energy to concentrate or scrutinize what it was or where it came from for the girl wailing in his arms. Left with little recourse, he settled himself onto her bed and held her there, allowing his eyes to take in the slowly dying fire across the room. Sébastien felt her fingers clutch the fabric of his jacket as if it were the only thing anchoring her to this world. She screamed. She screamed into his clothes and dampened them with her tears while his fingers, mindlessly and methodically, ran through her hair. He honestly didn't know what to do, so he didn't stop his fingers and he didn't say anything.

After she was finished screaming, her body shuddered in his arms with violent, wave-like motions born of the sobs and wails eating away at the interior of his ears. He did not stop her, though. There was no comfort enough he could offer her that would blanket the pain she was experiencing. He wasn't sure he wanted to comfort her.

"I didn't pray enough! Not hard enough," she was choking on her words and tears. Sébastien smacked her back lightly then pulled her away from his chest.

"Louise! Listen to me," he gave her a shake to get her attention then cupped her face in his hands so she focused on his eyes. "There was _nothing_ you could do for her. She was sick for a long time. She needed more than prayer. Do you understand me?"

She closed her eyes, shook her head, and sobbed, "How am I going to do this without her?"

He felt her tears warm the skin of his hands. His thumbs brushed her tears away. He would get nowhere with her through Socratic methods after so fresh a loss, so he allowed himself to give into what came naturally. One hand slid its fingers into her hair, the other disappeared around her back and drew her against his chest once more.

"I cannot live without her," her voice cracked, snuffling.

Sébastien bore his gaze into the flames, as if to will them to grow, swell and rise. He lost himself in their flickering, her words lilting through her ears like a supplicant's prayer. In the stillness of his thoughts, he saw the stars in the sky, at his feet and in her eyes. From there, he had one singular though: _Then you will not have to._

* * *

It comes in threes, they say. Sorrow, joy and other emotions Louise didn't think she ever wanted to feel again. Happiness, anger, thrill, jealousy…they all bled together in a muted shade of grey. She finally understood how great her mother's pain had been at losing Jean. It had never been about losing a first born, losing a child…but about something greater, of more substance: losing an irreplaceable piece of yourself.

Louise felt broken. Her chest ached with the throbbing of someone yanking her heart from its cage and crushing it before her eyes. Everything was a blur of tears and black. The funeral, a mere mosaic of stained glass, black lace and cold stone. She did not rise from bed if she did not need to, and ignored the food placed before her. What would sustain her, she could never have again. Louise knew her muscles didn't need meat or milk to grow strong, but the touch of her mother's hand to her forehead, the gentleness of her voice to soothe her fears. Nourishment unobtainable. So she slept until death returned her to the embrace she longed for.

A week after such behaviors, she felt rough fingers force her mouth open and shove stew inside, "You _**will **_eat, Louise!"

Why was he here? That was all she pondered as she thrashed and rolled out of his grasp, falling to the stone floor with a pitiful thud, "No!"

Caught in her sheets, she made easy prey and he was upon her like a wolf. He seized both wrists in one hand and held them behind her back while the mass of his weight pushed her down against her back. Blonde hair fell into his eyes as he pivoted his upper body to grab the bowl of stew. She clamped her lips together and turned her head. She heard him sigh, feeling his frustration.

"Be a good girl, Louise and eat. Don't make me _**force**_ you," he uttered.

She grunted, wriggling beneath him and tugging on her wrists. He responded by tightening his grasp and forcing her face look at him. For such cold, icy colored eyes…she felt like she was melting, "_You will eat __**now**__." _And she ate.

When she was finished eating, she carried her downstairs and dumped her into a tub of hot water. Two maidservants stripped the chemise from her body and scrubbed her, untroubled by LaCroix's presence.

* * *

"You have made your petition quite clear, Monsieur LaCroix and I have told you, the Prince is considering it," the grey-haired Seneschal responded to Sébastien. "He has many more requests before yours that require his utmost attention. I _promise _you, I will let you know as soon as a decision is made."

"And _how long_ might that be?"

The man, who obviously hated his job, rubbed the bridge of his nose and shook his head, "However long it takes. If you hadn't noticed, we are having a small Lasombra invasion to deal with _**first**_. All requests to _**sire**_, come second."


	8. Embrace

A/N: This chapter would definitely need to be classified as "T" for extremely suggestive prose in this chapter. For those who stick to the strictness of LaCroix's personality, fear not! That part of him will rear its ugly head in the next chapter. Read, review and enjoy!

* * *

_**Her eyes flew open at precisely eight o'clock, as they had done every night since the first. She didn't immediately rise. Her cheeks were wet and she sighed as the back of both hands raked across her face to dry them off. She hated that memory and it seemed the more she attempted to distance her mind from it, the stronger it rebounded. The details became clearer, voices sharper and sensations stronger. One thing never changed, and that was her mother's survival.**_

_**Louisa sat up and triangulated her knees, allowing a perch for her forehead as she conjured other memories to make that one fade away. When that didn't work, she ran through the logistics of the evening ahead. The sound of her door opening and movement around the room meant there was no more time to wash away residual pain. She slid from her bed and stopped in front of her vanity to fix her hair into rollers. Boxes of varying shades of black hair dye speckled one side of the vanity and she rolled her eyes at the not-at-all subtlety of her Sire. Ignoring the boxes, she lifted her hand and cupped a cross that hung on one corner of the vanity mirror. She ran her thumb over the cross, whose Jesus was so worn down by the ritualistic practice at the beginning of every night He barely had a face. The rosary long ago lost her scent, but she didn't need to actively smell it to know it through and through. **_

_**His hand came out of nowhere, or rather out of the unexpected, and stopped her thumb. She looked at his reflection in the mirror. She tugged her fingers from his and began popping large-barrel heated rollers into her hair. He lifted the boxes of hair dye and held them up to her head until he found a color matching enough not to bother him.**_

"_**What's wrong?" he lifted a knuckle to the edge of her eye and dabbed at the remnant tear lingering there.**_

"_**Bad dream."**_

"_**About…?"**_

"_**My mother."**_

_**His reflection's jaw stiffened, eyes moving to the fatigued rosary. His fingers touched the cross and in his eyes, she could see he was remembering the lady who wore it with as much reverence he could give Kine. She also knew he was remembering the necklace's ulterior significance in their long history. "Remember her well," he looked at her now, turning her away from the vanity with a heavy hand, "And think on something else."**_

_**The way he pushed his hand into her back, guiding her to her closet while talking her into reconsidering her chosen attire for the evening pressed a long-ignored nerve. His fingers pressed against her spine to emphasize his words physically, in addition to audibly. She suddenly had her 'something else' to think about.**_

* * *

The grey-haired Seneschal slapped a tri-fold piece of paper onto LaCroix's desk, the composite of hemp and linen creating a thwumping sound amid the crying and groaning of LaCroix's most recent victim. The man noted that LaCroix's immaculate office, with its equally spaced furniture and neurotically ordered documents, was askew. By piling his furniture to one corner and throwing cheap fabric over books and papers, Sébastien had managed to finagle a make-shift dungeon out of his cramped professional quarters. The Seneschal stood rigid by the caddy-corner desk while watching LaCroix lean over his latest victim with a pair of bloodied pincers in his hand. When LaCroix straightened up, he held an elongated tooth between two fingers against the pale light of a candelabrum. The Seneschal felt the slightest quake disturb his spine as he realized Sébastien had ripped out one of this Kindred's fangs immediately prior to him stepping into the room

"Now, you _will_ tell me who your other compatriots are, or I am afraid I shall be forced to remove your other fang," a clinking sound succeeded his threat as he set the fang onto a plate beside where the sorry fellow was strapped into a chair.

Sébastien slid his eyes toward the grey-haired man in the corner, then back toward his prey, "Looks like you have a little time to alphabetize those names for me while I see to my guest." He strode toward Seneschal, wiping his bloodied hands on a handkerchief before shaking the man's hand, "To what do I owe the honor this fine evening, sir?"

The Seneschal's eyes avoided Sébastien's to focus on the man behind them. His lips quirked, "Fine work Monsieur LaCroix, but is it all necessary?"

"Oh, you know it's not a true confession without torture. He's just making it harder for himself," LaCroix smiled and since the Seneschal knew him to be a man of no more than a smirk, he was disturbed. "Care for a souvenir?"

"No, thank you," the Seneschal motioned to the sealed paper, "Congratulations Monsieur LaCroix."

Sébastien followed the man's eyes and set blood-caked fingers upon the paper. If the grey-haired man had to name the emotion he saw, he would have to call it relief. It reminded him of the way people looked when they felt their prayers had been answered.

"In honor of your dedicated service to our Prince, we as his Voice are happy to extend to you the privilege of siring. Additionally, as a reward for your exceptional part in abolishing this Sabbat uprising, the Prince would like to extend to you the position of Scourge. This, naturally, expands your domain and provides to you the property used by the former Scourge within Lyon."

Sébastien gripped the paper, awash with new entitlement and turned his gaze back to the man tied to the chair, "Deliver our most earnest thanks to our gracious Prince."

"I will indeed," the grey-haired man headed for the door. He gave LaCroix a departing look, "Whomever it is you have chosen, I hope they are worthy of our clan Sébastien."

"They are. If not immediately, you can determine by my handiwork," he motioned to his prisoner, "That they _will_ be."

* * *

Dour. That was the only word proper enough to describe Louisé the months following her mother's funeral. She refused any of the bright colors she had once garbed herself with and replaced them with varying shades of grey or black. She appeared more a young widow than a grieving daughter, but her father hadn't the heart to fight with her on the issue. He only requested she make herself more presentable when it came to company; his implication to look more _attractive _for the young men or widowers he was luring to the chateau. Marriage was stored to far back in her mind, the suitors were more likely to find the Ark of the Covenant than her eagerness or matrimonial hand.

She woke to misty rain and dressed in her lackluster attire. She sat, fingers pushing her mother's rosary beads in prayer while a maidservant tended to her hair. She tied the sacred necklace about her waist, emulating her mother's sacrosanct behaviors. The sudden religious fervor frightened those around her, but they also accepted it as a fact of grieving and a means for her to connect with her mother on a spiritual level since she no longer could practically.

Without his wife, Charles relegated most of Beatrice's chores and duties to his remaining child in the hopes she would not only take a weighty burden off his shoulders, but acquire the necessary skills to manage the feminine elements of the estate. She had yet to disappoint his expectations and he was beginning to feel less guilty and indecisive about making her his sole heir.

"Is everything prepared, Louisé?" Charles came upon his daughter tucking fresh sheets into a guest bed. A chore reserved for servants, Charles appreciated Louisé's sense of dedication to things being up to her standard. She reflected her mother in that way and he suspected, Louisé knew that. "You can let the servants finish up his room."

"Yes, father," she abandoned the bed with a final tuck and followed him from the room. Her wrist wiped her forehead free of sweat. The rising temperature and misty conditions were creating an uncomfortable humidity within the chateau. "When is Baron LaCroix due to arrive? The cook wants to know what should be made for dinner."

"Oh, he usually arrives late in the night, Louisé. He told your mother and me long ago not to fuss with having a meal prepared for him."

She accepted this without much care, "What does he want, father?"

Charles' expression hardened. As a friend, LaCroix had encouraged him to include Louisé in the business side of the estate, but she was not entirely sure he was ready for that since he couldn't entirely remember the circumstances of the conversation leading to that encouragement. "He has some business with me."

Louisé made a noise, "Is he bringing a friend?"

Charles crooked a brow, "I'm not sure. I assume as much since he asked for two rooms downstairs to be prepared this time instead of his usual one, but I haven't a clue who they are."

"Very well, I will tell the maids to prepare the one beside his."

"You don't like him much, do you Louisé?"

Her lips pursed in a way that made Charles recall his late wife's reaction to salacious gossip, "If you recall, father, he was not particularly kind to me as a child."

"I was under the impression he has been quite kind as of late."

"I wouldn't call it kindness, so much as obligatory civility."

"Well, whatever it may be, make sure you extend better to him and his guest while they're here with us. Are you off then?"

Louisé paused mid-step and looked back at her father, "Yes. I plan on attending confession, prayer and then the evening Mass."

"That will last until after dark," there was concern in his voice.

"I will be careful, father."

* * *

LaCroix planned it as precisely as he could, save for one glaring detail. Tucked into a comfortable-enough trunk within a windowless carriage, he slept the length of his journey from Lyon to Charles' chateau. A ghoul rode on either end of the carriage for daytime security's sake and grunt labor for when they arrived. The sun wasn't quite setting when they arrived, leaving the ghouls responsible for carrying him to his indoor quarters. Their minimal domination abilities would provide enough to overpower the mortal company around them from becoming too suspicious about his lack of presence. While he rested, he ran through each component of his plan until his brain was dizzy with excitement.

First, he will sequester Charles to the spare room he requested and there, bind him. Then he will dispatch of superfluous staff to needy Kindred homes in Lyon. After that, he would _find_ her. She will be in her room, most likely, and kneeling in prayer. He will open the door and she will turn her head to look at him in surprise, perhaps confused concern and rise from her knees. Her hair might be down and cascading over her shoulders, or behind them, or off to one side and her eyes may widen and be alight from the fire lighting the candles. He will dominate her into a calm submission before having her bathed and dressed in a new chemise he brought with him from Lyon. Once clean and dressed, she will be placed on his bed where he would make her wait in anticipation. He waits until her anticipation raises to a pleasant place between craving and anxiety before entering the room. He locks the door and covers the window to camouflage the intimacy of this process, speaking things to her to provoke her anticipation and fear.

Then he settles his hands on her. Her shoulders, to start. He encourages her lay back against the bed and become comfortable. Her legs, next, to part at his very command. From there, he brings her body to a decent peak, but not climax. He wants her blood sweetened by means she could appreciate with her newfound womanhood without leaving him feeling like a deviant. Then he bites. So _**sweet**_! First the inside of her thigh, his ears drawing in the sounds of her satisfaction and surrender as each successive bite brings more and more of her into him. He has never wanted blood or body as much as hers, as much as _**now**_. He saves plenty for his final bite into that precious neck of hers. He drinks until he hears her last whimper die. He runs his thumb over her lips and parts them. He bites his wrist and presses it to her open mouth and releases himself into her.

After that, he will clean her and tuck her into the bed. He shall wait for her to rise from a chair across the room. To sate her ravenous first moments, he will allow she feed from him. To bind her to him, she will feed from him for the first few nights in addition to other, _proper _sources. Charles shall be her first blue blood meal, he has decided, as a means to symbolically replace himself as her new father of the night. She will obey and Charles will be found dead. Louisé will inherit, thereby expanding Sébastien's domain and increasing his revenue.

His fangs her throbbing by the time he rises from the trunk at sunset. His beastly mind caught in the loop of his draining her and brain changing the details ever slightly until he is near delirious with structured excitement. He sets out the chemise she will wear and instructs his ghouls to prepare a bath for her while he hunts Charles down. Everything goes smoothly until he opens her door and finds the room dark and _**empty**__. _Rage doesn't quite exemplify the explosion in his brain as he stalks down to Charles. He no longer bothers to hide the animalistic canines or feral growl in his voice.

"_**Where is she?!**_" he roars.

* * *

The priest would not let her leave hungry. Impressed by her sudden spiritual growth and inclination, partnered with his respect for the family who contributed additional salary toward his comfort, he insisted Louisé share dinner with himself and a singular, resident nun. Louisé could not refuse his charity, but dinner came with conversation that delayed her intended return home. He sent her home with the nun as a companion, who returned to the church once Louisé was deposited at the front door.

The first thing she noticed was the uncomfortable atmosphere of the chateau, which had nothing to do with the humidity. She anticipated quiet when she returned, but not an eerie silence settled like a fog throughout the hallways. It was the silence of a forest when a predator roamed, all animals still as statues in the hopes of being bypassed for something better. Any move could mean certain death. Louisé felt her chest tighten and stomach roll. What predator was after _her_ to make her feel so afraid?

Gripping her mother's rosary and enlisting the Saints for protection within her own brain, she moved down the hall to let her father know she was home, safe and sound. This late probably meant her father was in his room, so she dared knock on the door even if it meant rousing the sleeping bear her father was always accused of being. Nothing stirred and no one came. She broken the golden rule of the house and opened the door, peeking into the dark for a long while until her eyes adjusted. No one was in the room. Louisé closed the door and headed for her room instead, feeling clunky and glaring in her dark dress.

Her door was ajar, flooding the small space of the hallway in front of it with an ominous light. Louisé swallowed and dismissed a rising anxious thought with a simple explanation of her maid having prepared her rooms hours ago. She entered the room and found nothing out of order. She dressed down to her chemise and dressing gown. For some reason, she felt compelled to keep the rosary on her person instead of replace it to the prayer stand by her bed. Feeling guilty for staying out late and determined to confirm her presence for her father, she left her room to find him. Surely he would be in his study.

Her father presented himself well since her mother's death, but behind the scenes he was a nervous wreck. For reasons she could both understand and not comprehend, her father feared for her very life. He made sure to know where she would be at all times and did not participate in any action that may threaten her. And while she knew she had explained her whereabouts thoroughly to him, she would not place him under undo anxiety. She suspected he would be in his study, balancing ledgers and responding to a mass pile of letters in an effort to quell any angst. She knocked on the study door and pushed it open.

"Father," she stared at the desk chair, its back to her while it faced the fire, "I'm sorry I arrived so late. I wanted to let you know I'm home and that I am going to bed now." Her fingers fumbled with the beads on the rosary.

The sound of tongue clicking responded. She had heard that clicking before, in a time gone by that was decorated with side pinches, teasing and quills. Her stomach tightened when his voice arose, "You've been a _very, __**naughty**_ girl, Louisé."

He turned to face her and every muscle in her body froze with fear. The light of the fire made his mouth and chin glisten. She knew the red around his mouth was not wine, but she was too frightened and sickened to accept what she knew it was. She looked around the room and spotted a pair of legs sticking out from behind the desk. They looked feminine…at least they weren't her father's. A pounding sound snapped her attention back to LaCroix. His fist had crushed the wood of the desk beneath it. He was madder than she had ever seen him.

"I set specific conditions in place and I _**expect **_those conditions to be met! _**You **_were supposed to be here! How _**dare**_ you defy my explicit instructions!" he took steps, slow and rapacious, toward her.

She backed up, heart pounding, "Stay away from me!"

He laughed, "What's _wrong_, Louisé? Have I _frightened_ you?"

She didn't answer him. A rational voice in her head said '_Close the door!'_ and she obeyed. She slammed the door closed and ran down the length of the hall. She heard him screaming, the sound of splintering wood and cursing. Her feet pounded against the cold stone and sent sharp pains up her ankles. Something rose out of the darkness as she turned a corner for the stairs and before she knew it, her face smacked into the floor. She heard a crunching sound and a wave of nausea hit her stomach. Warm liquid rushed down from her nose and dribbled into her mouth as she huffed while pushing herself up. She struggled, her legs fighting to overcome the lump she tripped over. Looking at what was in her way, she heart sank at the still body of her father. His lifeless eyes gazed back at her, and the gash at his throat looked like a vulgar smile depositing its red saliva into a pool. She screamed and jolted up to stand. A figure moved around the corner.

"I was _**very **_hungry, Louisé…If you had _**been**_ here, this would never have happened and your father would still be alive. Oh, are you _**crying**_ now, Louisé?" he was reacting to her quiet, terrorized sobbing.

"No, please…T-this is just a dream," Louisé reached out to touch her father's cooling face. She pulled her fingers back, sickened and wiped her nose. Her arm was stained with a dark streak and as soon as she touched the tip of her nose, her face erupted with profound pain.

"Then you better keep running until you wake up, my dear. I'll even give you a ten second head start. One…two…" he counted tauntingly slow.

She didn't hear 'three' as she pumped her legs and ran up the stairs. She lost her footing halfway up and crashed her knee into the corner of the next stair. The stone cut her skin and she felt a weak trickle, compared to her nose, slink down her leg. She had no time to consider this fresh wound. Cold fingers weaved their way into her hair, twisted and yanked. He began dragging her up the stairs without a care to whether she accomplished climbing them with her feet or knees.

"_**Disrespectful**_! _**Unacceptable**_, Louisé! How _**dare**_ you make me wait! I won't tolerate this kind of behavior, do you understand me?" he lifted her off the top step and paused.

She didn't understand him at all. All she understood was the pain in her nose and knee. She tried to control her sniveling, but that was impossible under the circumstances. He forced her face up to stare at his snarl, complete with sharp teeth. His fingers released her hair, but not her. Too afraid to move, she kept her head inclined though she fought to avoid his eyes. She felt his fingers press into the space between her shoulders, urging her closer. Her stiff sternum did not move. Four somethings pricked her back and she squeaked.

"Don't disobey me, Louisé." A metallic aroma wafted into her nose, coaxing her nausea.

"_**Please**_, don't…" she begged.

"Don't what?" his tone changed. It was coaxing, soft and calming through she felt _none _the more serene.

"Hurt me," her bottom lip trembled, eyes squeezing shut to escape the horror.

"My intention is never to hurt you, Louisé but you must understand…I won't tolerate insubordination," his other fingers, cold, stroked her cheek.

"But I don't understand what you're talking about," she whimpered.

"You will," she felt the cold trail of his fingers from her jawline down the side of her neck. Her heart hurt from beating so hard for so long. His fingers pressed against her skin, rubbing, "Ssssshhhhh, this won't hurt a bit."

She gripped the beads of the rosary, praying this was swift but when his mouth widened toward her throat, flashing canines like a beast she prayed for strength instead. The halls echoed the sound of her voice as she screamed, yanked her body back and threw her arm up.

"No!"

* * *

Instead of the supple flesh of her neck, Sébastien sunk his fangs into the sinewy texture of her lower arm. He didn't even have the pleasure of catching her wrist or vein. That mattered a little less compared to the searing pain that slapped into the front of his face. He heard two sets of screaming: hers as he bit into her arm, and his as he released her. There was thrashing, and in an attempt to get a grip in his runaway doe, he dug sharp nails into flesh. He felt warm blood spill over his fingers and her peel out of his grasp. He couldn't open his eyes for the two burning spheres sitting just atop his flesh.

Everything went topsy-turvy after that. She must have shoved him and in his incapacitated stated, he fell backwards over the stairs. Everything stopped once his back smacked into the hard, cold stone of the floor at the stair base. He felt sore, embarrassed and incensed that a Kine got the better of him. He staggered to stand and let out a roar of frustration. Both ghouls came running, capturing the sight of their Master scraping at something attached to his face. The braver of the two moved closer, albeit out of reach of his rage, and saw glistening prayer beads seared into LaCroix's flesh. He would ask later how such a simplistic object could cause such damage for the vampire.

"M-master?"

"Get this off of me, you simpleton!"

The man, name unimportant, approach and took hold of the dangling cross to begin removing the beads from his master's face. His stomach knotted when Sébastien's eyes flew open to narrowed slit, fangs bared with undiluted anger. The burn marks from the beads healed quickly once the entire rosary was removed. The servant held the necklace in his hand and stepped back from LaCroix, who stared at the conduit of prayer with disgust.

"What are you doing just standing here?!" he snapped, more at the ghoul behind them.

"W-we heard you-"

"I know what you _heard_, you thick-headed gopher! Where is Louisé?!"

The ghouls stiffened before him, instigating his temper further. He gritted his teeth as the closer answered him, "W-we thought you had her."

"We shall go search for her," the other squeaked. Sébastien held up a pale hand.

"Your incompetence has caused me enough this evening. I can find her on my own." He left them stupored and stalked for the front entrance. His precisely constructed, time devoted plan was in tatters at his proverbial feet. There was not enough discipline in the world to reign in the beast tearing through Sébastien's consciousness.

"You better run! Run, Louisé! I _**will**_ find you! You cannot hide from me!" he yelled into the damp air of the night. On the wind, he could smell her blood.

* * *

Crying was useless. That didn't stop Louisé's eyes from producing sufficient tears as she maneuvered herself out of the chateau and into the surrounding forest. She had thrown the rosary into his face, in the hopes their divine power would intervene on her behalf in a more physical, than spiritual, capacity. She never expected them to work as well as they did. A bite to the arm was well worth watching him scream in pain. Then Louisé had done what came naturally and fought to get away, not expecting him to claw her back. The searing agony paralyzed her for an instant. Vengeance gave her the strength to shove him backward but she didn't stay to watch him topple, just listened to the sound of him falling fade behind her as she ran the opposite direction.

Her legs betrayed her twice before she reached the tree line, collapsing once into the dirt and stumbling over a misappropriated piece of farm equipment. All the while, she could feel blood drip down her back and the backs of her legs. Feeling cumbersome in her weighty dressing gown, Louisé abandoned the article of clothing amongst the trees as she ran, disturbed by the size of the stain and slash marks. How bad was the condition of her back? She had no idea, only that every lift of her knees sent another bolt of pain throughout her body.

But she couldn't stop running until she was far enough away, or somewhere safe. She felt the leaves crunch beneath her feet, slick from the drizzle that day. She slid through the undergrowth, arms flying up to smack branches out of her face. Her lungs burned, forcing her to stop so she could feast on air. Her brain was swimming and once she was stopped, she could feel how hard her arms and legs her shaking. Stomach rolling, Louisé gripped a tree and vomited into a pile of leaves and decaying undergrowth. The air now stunk of sour regurgitation, mildewed foliage and iron. Louisé huffed, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and whimpered when her nose reminded her of its fragility.

Messy fingers brushed tears, sweat and clinging hair from her face as she turned around in an effort to get her bearings. Which direction had she come from? Which way was forward? Backward? Her heart constricted and she sobbed, realizing how completely lost she was. She had been taunted, assaulted and now stood bloody, if not still _bleeding_, in the middle of a forest because she believed it would save her life. This must be how the deer felt when hunters came for them, lodging arrows in their pelts with whoops of excitement.

Clouds drifted overhead, revealing the near fullness of the moon. With newfound, pale light Louisé could better see the extent of her state. Both arms were bloodied, one from an open bite mark that throbbed with a dull discomfort and the other from when she had wiped her face after kissing the floor. Her knee ached and stung from having the top layer of flesh scraped off but there was nothing more than a thin trickle, dried up from running. She didn't even need to both with her nose, which ached and swelled from what she could only identify as break. The real damage laid on her back. Gingerly, she navigated a hand backward to make a sightless assessment of the situation. She counted four gashes of varying sizes. The topmost started at her left shoulder blade but didn't extend very far or deep. The two subsequent wounds were worse, creating deep gorges in her muscles. The last wound was barely a scrape, but still stung like all small, seemingly innocuous cuts tend to. Her fingers followed the trail of sticky solution down, over her backside and thighs.

Louisé lifted her dirty nightgown to glance at the back of her legs. They glistened the same way LaCroix's face had. She choked down more vomit but failed to hold it for long. Pitched forward, groaning from her discomfort, she almost didn't catch the sounds of the forest die…become suspiciously still. Louisé raised her eyes and in the distance, among the trunks of the trees darkened like spectres, she saw a figure move.

_**No**__…_she thought, her mind resuming its panicked disposition. She teetered backwards, spun and continued running though her legs felt more like cold honey. She hear someone crashing through the leaves somewhere behind her. She screamed, a heart-wrenching blend of begging and prayer. Her foot caught a stone, or maybe a root. Tripping, she flew forward and the only insight she had was to cover her face this time as her body hit the ground and rolled down a steady slope. She felt twigs poke her in the side, snag in her hair and leaves tickle her arms as she spun down. She came to rest against a fallen tree trunk. It smelled of moss, dirty and damp. Louisé shook and pressed her face into her arms as she sobbed. She did not move from where she lay. The approaching footsteps told her how futile running was at this point.

"Honestly, Louisé…How far did you think you would get?" LaCroix's taunting broke the silence. The intensity of his presence loomed close over her, a hand pulling her away from the tree, "You're _coated_ in your own blood. I could smell you a mile away."

* * *

She kept her arms clutched over her face, which was insignificant to him or his intentions. Without a single consideration to her comfort, he forced his arms beneath her body and hauled her from the ground. She cried out in pain and arched her back away from his arms. Her body felt sticky, smelled sour and was now caked with a combination of blood and dirt that made her unappealing to his increased appetite. As payback for striking his face with her prayer beads, his took his time walking back to the chateau, savoring each and every whimper or sob.

He dumped her on her bed with no ceremony and barked for his ghouls to get a fresh bath ready for her. The amount of blood she had lost in addition to running for hypothetical freedom made her weak. She could no more fight against him than could bring the cold corpse of her father back to life. His hands flipped her over onto her stomach and tore the flimsy material covering her body. The cuts on her back had stopped bleeding, but left a mess in the process. He couldn't have any progeny of his immortally scarred. Lowering his head, he pressed his tongue to each of the wounds and became the tedious process of both cleaning and healing.

Much as he wanted to listen, he ignored the sounds she made as he sucked on her skin and stitched her flesh back together. Her muscles jerked and spasmed as he trailed his tongue along the ridges of the open wounds. So close to her body, he smelled her sweat and dying panic. He was so hungry but could accomplish nothing satisfying with her tonight. He would have to postpone. With one last, long groan from her, he finished reconstructing her back to pristine alabaster. He gripped her shoulder and rolled her over, watching her flinch from pain she supposed would wash over her. Her pretty face was made hideous by the purple-black bloat of her broken nose. Saying nothing, he pinched her nose between his fingers. She screamed, fresh tears swelling in her eyes, and gripped his wrist. She resumed her pleading, but he ignored her and with a precise movement, snapped her nose back into place. He had seen it done, and subsequently performed it, upon many soldiers during his brief stint in the military. Her nose was nothing compared to one smashed with the butt of a gun or sword handle.

He pricked the pad of his thumb with a fang and smeared blood over the cut on her nose ridge, massaged it into the side of her nose and waited for her skin to absorb, and appreciate, the healing power of his vitae. Sébastien took her arm, frowning at the wasted opportunity his teeth marks reminded him off. By closing his mouth over the wound, he repeated the process used on her back to close the wounds. The blood dried there was unappetizing, having been tainted by taste of dirt and flora. Then he abandoned her to the care of his ghouls.

* * *

Louisé's eyes felt heavy when next she opened them. The last thing she remembered before everything turning black was skilled fingers separating her hair to remove bits of leaf and wood. Her body was so exhausted and covered in patches of bruises ranging in blue, purple and black. The room she was in was warm and she was dressed in a silken, soft chemise…a welcome reprieve from what she had been wearing before. She groaned and sat up, but not much since her head began swimming. Forced to lay back down, she drew the blankets closer and focused on what she remembered. Blood…there had been lots of blood and Baron LaCroix, he became some sort of accursed beast. Clearly she was ill and haunted by feverish dreams to recall such an inhuman experience.

"My servants say you slept all day," his voice came out of a corner of the room.

She didn't respond with words, just sluggish groans. She tucked her fists beneath her chin and went back to sleep. She didn't dream, however. No monsters to scare her this time and when she woke next, LaCroix was sitting on the edge of the bed. He was staring down at her. Her eyes felt lighter, but not enough to warrant her staying awake if she didn't want to. He said nothing to her as his hand grabbed the blanket and tugged it away from her. The rush of air chilled her skin and she shivered, her left hand reaching for the blanket. He snatched her wrist and pressed it back against the bed, angling her body uncomfortably. She was now wide awake. Louisé tugged on her wrist but his grip was tight and cold.

"What are you doing? Let me go!" her voice raised.

He ignored her and slid his other hand beneath her head, his fingers pressing until she was looking at the wall to her right. She mewled and he pressed his lips against her cheek. As his lips moved, Louisé could feel the scrape of the fangs from her frenzied imagination. She started thrashing and he pressed the fullness of his body weight against her to stop her movements. It was the equivalent of laying a slab of rock on her. This may not have been a dream, but it was no less a nightmare.

He lifted his eyes to her, "Just _**relax**_." And she had no choice but to do so. Drugged by his words, Louisé sensed her muscles become slack and obedient. When his face disappeared, she felt tears run from the corner of her eye and drip over her nose. His mouth, perhaps the warmest part of him, covered the crook of her throat and an instant later, she felt a sharp piercing. She squealed a second then moaned, her free fingers tangling the sheets beneath them both. He was close enough to her ear for her to hear each lusty noise he made.

* * *

He didn't unlatch himself for over a minute. When he rose, she was laboring to breathe. Every mouthful slowed her heart and now he heard it every so often, a few more mouthfuls and she would be ready. Her eyelids fluttered and lips moved painstakingly slow. He licked his lips and tipped her face in his direction.

"What is it, Louisé?" he rubbed her cheek with his thumb.

"A-am…I…dying?" she struggled, her voice so soft.

He lifted her left hand to his face, rubbing his cheek into the soft palm, "Oh yes…" He listened to her sniffle, whimper in fear before shutting her mouth tightly. He pressed his lips to the skin of her wrist. "Don't be afraid. You won't feel a thing, I swear." He bit into her wrist and began drinking the last of her, listening cautiously for her fading heartbeat.

Finished. He set her arm down and looked at her face. Nose healed, eyes closed and mouth shut as if she were sleeping. He sunk his fangs into his own wrist and sucked, but did not swallow. He lifted her head with a hand and pressed his lips to hers, parting them with his tongue and forcing his blood inside. A small amount dribbled out and down her chin. His tongue forced the vitae farther down her throat before he pulled away and left the bed. He walked to a small table and poured water into a wash basin. Sébastien splashed his face repeatedly, rubbing the water over his mouth and chin. He dumped the ruddy water out the window then poured a fresh source and soaked a cloth.

He cleaned her body where his mouth smudged claret around and straightened her gown before settling her body back against the pillows. As he planned, he tucked her in and left to use the remaining hours of darkness to find her an appropriate food source for when she awoke. All nature's babies are hungry, after all.


	9. Drink

A/N: So far, the Embrace was my favorite chapter to write but this is a close second because I was able to explore the intimacy between sire and Childe immediately proceeding Embrace. This is a speculative look at how Ventrue tend to the needs of their Childer. The next chapter will cover the Agoge. Nothing is set in stone in my brain, so if you would like to see something PM me or provide your suggestion in a review! Hope you enjoy.

SandraSmit19: Thank you very much for your review! Hhhmmmm perhaps that last scene _**was **_meant to be sexy, who knows? *eyebrow waggle*

Word of the Day: "viae"- Latin plural of 'via', which means 'the way' or 'path' (a word Romans used to denote specific roads)

* * *

When it was clear Louisé would not be rising in the remaining hours of that night, he tied the Kine he had found for her part of her first meal in the basement then collapsed on the bed in the room beside where Louisé's comatose body lay. Sunset satisfying beneath the horizon, he woke the next night with a distinct awareness he needed to intercept the ravenous and vicious behaviors of a neonate. He strode straight to her room instead of changing or washing. Louisé did not stir, nor was there any evidence she had moved during the day and he felt the core of himself sink low. Having never Embraced before, Sébastien wasn't confident he had not simply killed her instead of drinking just enough or that she required more time. He understood some needed only hours to raise while others, a night or two. He exhaled unnecessarily and departed to find his ghouls, feed and take Charles' will to the appropriate individuals. He had taken the liberty of writing them about Charles' death two days ago so they would travel from Lyon to Barby a full day before him.

Advanced preparations did not mean he would not still be completing hours of paperwork to finalize the transition of Louisé's inheritance. Charles' body lay in state on his own bed and he had easily concocted a reasonable story for his death, even gone so far as to have his neck stitched and body dressed properly to cover the fatal cut. He knew they wouldn't even want to see his body, but that didn't mean Sébastien was any less magisterial toward the duties before him. He was _Ventrue_, after all. His part in the man's murder did not forgo his responsibility that the noblemen receive due funerary arrangements. He left his ghouls to conduct any affairs until he returned.

* * *

Cold. That was the first sensation she awoke to. A blistering cold tightening each muscle, goose bumping her skin and coiling her insides. Next, she had an awareness of great emptiness. This wasn't just hunger, but a recognition that there was something (if not many somethings) missing from her body. One of those things was her heart. It's funny how people don't notice their hearts until they absolutely must. In the case of the night before, she completely perceived the power of her heart as it ran ragged throughout her chest. She most definitely noticed it tonight because it was not doing a thing. There was no beat, ragged or otherwise, stirring in her breast. No matter how panicked she became (and she was _**certainly**_ panicked) nothing disturbed the lead heaviness between her ribs.

Then came the pricking pain inside her own mouth. She opened her mouth and winced. Her bottom gums had a dull throb to them, like they had been knicked. She prodded the inside with a cold finger and paused when one tooth ran longer than she believed it should and ended with a sharp point. Yanking her finger out, she threw off the covers and jumped from the bed. She had little time to consider what happened to her teeth when a crippling hunger pitched her forward. This was something akin to the pain of her courses, but the burning traveled from the pit of her stomach to her throat.

She swallowed, panted from the awful burden overpowering her body. She had to drink! Her eye caught a wash basin in the corner of the room with its spousal water jug. Brief relief washed over her as she grabbed the jug and drank down the contents. She took one step before everything she just swallowed stormed up out of her and splashed onto the stone floor like a violent rain. She groaned and hugged her arms tight to her abdomen. If water would not quench this substantial thirst, she would have to search elsewhere for relief. Staggering to the door, she moped down the hallway to the kitchen in the hopes there was someone left who had the forethought to cook.

Her eyes adjusted easier than they ever had to the dark around her, the moonlight more glaring than subtle now. The house didn't seem so silent either. She heard the animals outside, ranging from crickets to owls in the distance. Simultaneously, her ears rang with the work and movement of bodies in the chateau. Someone was thrashing about in the wine cellar below, another drumming their fingers against wood rooms away and a third scraping paper with a quill. It was maddening.

Her throat tightened, reminding her of the great hungry beast inside. She found a pot of cooled stew hanging and scooped the last of it into a bowl. She took a bite out of the stew, but didn't even manage to swallow before spitting it out. It tasted of some misbegotten child between bad meat and ash. Sniffing the bowl, the contents smelled as they had tasted. Did the cooks have stomachs the same making as the pot that they could not recognize how rotten the meat had become? Perhaps bread or an apple would suit her appetite better. She was wrong. The bread smelled moldy and tasted like swill. The apple soured in her, like cream in the summer heat. By the time she was done experimenting anything and everything available, the floor of the kitchen looked relative to a pig's trough.

A fierce rage overcame her normal stable sensibilities. With strength she never had, she threw the kitchen table across the room and watched it snap and splinter. Pain shook her belly and she cried, whining like an infant. She tugged on her hair from unprecedented frustration. Nothing was satisfying. Nothing even tasted good! Pounding built up between her eyes; the warnings of an oncoming headache. Her fingers gripped tighter on her head, nails scratching her scalp. She pulled them from their black ropes and looked down at the scarlet dotting her nails that seemed longer and sharper than before…like her teeth.

It wasn't the elongation or pointy tips that disturbed Louisé. No, it was the blood at ends of three fingers. She could smell the aroma, like someone waving a rose beneath her nose. It was a welcome smell to the refuse of the food at her feet but she wanted to know _why_. Why did it smell so much better than stew cooked with care? Better than that, why did her mouth water…temptation demand she lick at her own sanguine? She lowered her hands and wiped her nails off. She distracted herself with the sound of footsteps approaching and moved to meet them. Perhaps they had the answers to her debauch questions and inexplicable malady.

* * *

Sébastien felt a prominent rhythm building behind his eyes from hours spent listening to the unrestricted stuttering of an old man and constant wheezing of his son. The one relief was that they had found no roots to trip him up over declaring Louisé heiress. They only wished to see her that they may pass their sympathies and congratulations in one swoop. The problem arose for him in the fact that his Childe had not.

He dismounted from his horse and handed the reins to a field hand, a dominated remnant from the original estate servential stock. The man possessed a fidgety, if not entirely frightened, disposition that had not been there when Sébastien left. Not particular caring about the servant's mental state, he abandoned the man to his chores and entered the chateau. A cacophony of chaos smacked his ears and he strode to the kitchen to find its source. What he found was hard not to appreciate as comical, had his Childe not been the conductor of such a fuss.

Louisé straddled one of his ghouls, arms flailing to scratch the man to bits while the second ghoul tried to hold her back. Considerate about the damage she could do, the second man simultaneously protected his face by burying it into Louisé's back. That left his own arms victim to her wrath, however. When she wasn't swinging at the man on his back, she was scraping at the one holding her from her furious intentions. Her fangs were bared and the noises she produced so feral, she could pass for Gangrel. Around them was scattered a cornucopia of half-eaten food. The bottom hem of Louisé's chemise was stained from the refuse of wasted plenty. He allowed himself another ten second to enjoy this farce of three.

"That's _enough_ now," LaCroix stepped into the room and took hold of Louisé's upper right arm. Dragging her away from her intended prey was not so easy now that she had shed her human fragility and embodied the Herculean strength of neonatal Kindred.

Louisé's eyes snapped onto him. The predatory heat dissolved into an intrinsic recognition of her blood parent. Sight alone would have calmed her, but the added touch flooded her with relief. She softened in his grip and rose from the ghoul. He noticed the way her jaw fumbled to accommodate their sharp, new residents. He released her arm and stilled her jaw with the same hand, eyes moving to the ghoul.

"What's the meaning of this?"

"S-she just attacked me! We were talking and the next thing I know, she's trying to claw my eyes out!" he took several steps away from them, face budding with blood from the superficial scrapes she had managed to land.

"He called me a monster!" Louisé complained. His hand wobbled with her words.

Sébastien narrowed his eyes on the ghoul. The man fumbled for words, pointing a finger at his Childe, "No! I called her a vampire. She was crying about how hungry she was, about how she couldn't eat or drink anything. So, I tried to explain to her-" Sébastien held up a hand to silence him.

"It is not your place to explain to _my_ Childe her new station of being," he looked at Louisé. "When did you rise?"

"I woke up about an hour ago. And I'm not _your _child. I am Louisé Seyssel-Chambert! I am the daughter of the Marquis and Marquess d'Aix! I am of _**noble **_blood! I am not a vampire!" her hunger-born temper was rearing its Hydra head once more. This time it was filled with overinflated pride. Very Ventrue.

Sébastien reached out. Massaging her jugular would calm her until she could feed. But Louisé would have none of it and drew away from his touch. He frowned and motioned the ghouls to the wine cellar, "I am going to speak privately with my Childe. Bring our guest in five minutes to my room, understood?" He walked for his room. Louisé did not follow him, instead slipping into the angry stubbornness of her kind. He stopped and looked back at her. She would have to learn quickly, if she hadn't already, that he would not tolerate blatant disobedience, "Louisé…_**come**_."

Bereft of her own will, her body fought itself as she followed after him. Her face displayed the perfect look of someone entirely confused and enraged by what they did not understand. He held the door open for her and motioned to the bed. She sat in the manner of a petulant toddler: with a huff, frown and clenched fists. He closed the door.

"I won't tolerate this behavior, Louisé. You will settle yourself or I shall make you. The choice is entirely yours," he grabbed a chair and sat across from her. Her seat on the bed gave her minute height over him and a perfect angle for her to look right into his eyes. Her mouth fumbled again, her shoulders tensed and her fingers clenched the bedcovers. The beast in her was winning this battle. She could no more control her actions than walk in the sun at this particular moment in time. No touch would calm her where blood would.

"I'm hungry!" she shouted at him. "My stomach hurts, my mouth hurts and my throat won't stop _**burning**_!" She sobbed, head thrashing from the mentioned pain.

He touched the sides of her knees and drew her attention back to him, "You need to feed."

"I _**tried**_! I drank some water and ate some food but it just kept coming back up! It tasted awful!" he knew he ought not be amused by her pain, as it was his own once, but he couldn't help it.

"Food will not sustain you, Louisé. It is but rubbish to your body. You need something else…something _**better**_," he stroked her hair, using his tone to soothe her.

"W-why can't I eat? What's wrong with me?!" he watched her clench her mouth then cry and open it up, pain in her eyes. Frustration was there, too, "What did you do to me?!"

She began fighting him. She raged with her fists and shrieked, unhinged by her starvation. It was not a long or hard-won fight as he grabbed one arm and twisted it behind her back. He wrapped his other arm around her body to still the remaining taloned weapon. He lifted her off the ground so that the only thing she could kick was the air. He settled them onto the bed, carefully abandoning his hold on the arm behind her back to constrict her with a second grip. Her legs swung and struck the air with angry strokes while her torso clobbered and wriggled against his body. She screamed with hiccup sobs as the only interruption. Sébastien set his chin atop her head and waited for her tantrum to die down. She didn't have much vitae to work with, after all.

He spoke up once she slumped in his embrace, "I have made you better. You are a superlative creature now, compared to what you were. You are vampire… Kindred. You are my Childe."

"I am not your daughter! I am not a monster!" a second wind caused a resurrected conniption.

"No, you're not a monster. What you are is _**starving**_," he wouldn't even _touch_ the difference between daughter and the concept of Childe. Not now, at least. Louisé displayed too much mental fragility and stubbornness to explain anything besides her own hunger. If she kept this up, she might not even learn _**that**_ before he was exhausted. Sébastien felt relieved by the soft knock at the door. "Enter," he ordered.

He kept his focus on controlling Louisé while the ghoul brought in the woman who had been tied up in the wine cellar. She was the newest member of his herd, the bottom tier of acceptable flavor required to sustain his nocturnal activities. By no means exemplary, she needed to be broken in to develop her supply but she would do for Louisé's first meal. This woman's purpose was diminish hunger, which his Childe needed, not provide the full-bodied pleasure of Louisé's experience with the first member of her inborn blood preference.

The woman had an unacceptably feisty temper, hence being tied up. Simple domination would have sufficed in securing her, but he wanted to teach her a lesson. (Seems he would be doing an awful lot of teaching from now on!) She was his property now, his personal blood cow and he wouldn't tolerate salacious behavior or back talk. He dismissed the ghoul with a wave of his hand and gave the woman a hard stare.

"You will provide my Childe sustenance. You will not speak to her or even make eye contact. If I find any behavior of yours to be displeasing, I will have you returned to the cellar. Is this understood?" the woman nodded, a thick regret spreading over her eyes as she began to realize this was not the arrangement she had imagined. He drew her close with the crook of his finger.

* * *

Louisé had little clue what was going on around her. There was a pounding in her head, an ache in her stomach and an incessant burning in her throat. They kept telling her she was different now. They said she was a vampire, but no sharpened teeth, keener senses or lack of heartbeat convinced her enough to want to believe it. By no means did that mean it wasn't true…she just couldn't accept it. LaCroix had stolen her humanity and replaced it with a damnable, hollow existence confined to the binding of superstition. Superstitions people couldn't stomach whispering. That's what she was now: a nauseating whisper.

She thrashed in LaCroix's iron tight grasp, his words dissolving into the mire of her anger and hunger. When she felt her energy escape, she stilled in his arms. The door opened and a woman came into the room. Everything changed. The smell in the room sweetened and Louisé became aware of an erratic heartbeat. Her senses squared on the woman: her ears listened to the haunting rhythm of her pulse, eyes navigated the viae of her veins and how they plumped, mouth watered with the expectant taste of her and her brain became a conflagration of guilt that she was experiencing these other sensations.

The woman came closer and Louisé jerked her head in another direction, dug her palms into the bed and used them as leverage to crush her body against the stone wall that was Sébastien LaCroix. Her scent intensified the closer she came which left Louisé little recourse but to assault the woman or tear out her own throat. Dignity demanded she execute the latter decision, but Baron LaCroix had other plans. She felt the cold force of his fingers grip her jaw and turn her face toward the woman. His other arm coiled round her waist and pressed her pelvis back toward the bed. She was little more than a marionette under his control.

"Louisé, this woman is going to give you what you need to make you feel better," his forefinger moved from her jaw to her mouth, attempting to coax it, "Now open your mouth and I'll show you how to feed."

_**Feed**_. The word was a grotesque abomination in her vocabulary. He may have forced this life upon her, but she would not give him the satisfaction of obedience. She snapped her chin in the opposite direction and clamped her lips tight, forcing the sharp points of her fangs into her gums.

"No! I _will __**not**_!"

"Look at me Louisé," his nails dug into her flesh. A tiny voice inside told her not to. _Don't look_, it whispered with a knowledgeable caution. He forced her face toward his and she shut her eyes tightly. She heard him exhale…frustrated. He relinquished his hold on her face. They sat in their stalemate until he spoke again, "It seems I am rushing you. Perhaps if you were to watch me, you would not feel so frightened."

She opened her eyes and glared at him, "I'm not going to do it. I won't do what _**you **_do! I won't!"

"Yes, you will," he insisted. "Even if I must force you, you will feed. Now watch and learn."

He kept her secure against him with one arm. He readjusted the two of them toward the top of the bed, giving space for the woman to sit before both LaCroix and her. Louisé watched the woman loosen the material of her collar and lean forward, offering her neck to him. LaCroix made a face, like he was grieved to bite this woman. He certainly wasn't winning the argument with a face like that! He looked at Louisé, "Watch carefully. A precise enough bite and you won't spill too much." He leaned in.

"No!" Louisé screamed, LaCroix stopping with a nasty snarl on his face as her reward. She looked down at the bedcover, fingers splaying over the fabric, "This was my mother's, from her trousseau. I don't want you ruining it."

With considerable patience, LaCroix allowed to Louisé fold the cover. Once she was finished, he made them all resume their positions though he did not keep such a tight hold on her. She watched him bite into the woman, listened to her groan and felt her own insides quiver. A blood tear ran down this victim's skin and Louisé picked up the unencumbered scent with guilty pleasure. She turned her head, disgusted by her recently perverted appetites. Louisé listened to him swallow twice and no more.

* * *

Stubborn was hardly the word to describe how his Childe dug in her heels about the concept of feeding. He tried to understand it from her point of view, but just couldn't. If you were starving and offered a way of ending that starvation, then why not take it? His concrete way of thinking did not blend well with Louisé grip on sentimentality. Her agoge had not yet begun, so Sébastien took solace in the time he had to pry that thinking from her hands.

After he finished drinking from the woman, he turned and expected Louisé to be waiting in anticipation of her turn. He was further frustrated to find her eyes planted on the opposite wall, mouth tight in refusal. He released her and slid off the bed.

"I have shown you what must be done. This woman will remain here until you feed," he grabbed up a stack of papers from a bag and sat down to work while Louisé resolutely curled into a ball on her side and stared at the wall.

He became immersed in his work, leaving the room once to retrieve the estate's financial ledger and list of business associates. He had a ghoul stand outside the door until he returned but Louisé had not moved an inch. Hours passed but he did not relent. The sounds of her hunger pains echoed around the room, but he would not comfort them unless she ended her childish resistance to his wishes. He needed her to feed so he could strengthen their bond. He would not reward her with his blood until she vanquished the flames of her voracious needs. Sébastien couldn't risk her draining too much from him simply because she refused to accept her altered appetite.

"Why did you do this to me…?" her voice whispered.

He set down the quill. In the fluster of the inheritance and comic tragedy of her first night, Sébastien hadn't planned an exact method of explaining himself. There was no one answer to give her. Mercantilism was certainly a factor. Charles' vision for his ancestral wine industry was regional, but Sébastien believed in his ability to expand and reap. His assignation to guardian made him sole proprietor of this estate (and its money) until Louisé came of age or married. Too bad she would never, _technically_, come of age and she most certainly would never marry. He only gained in this venture, further securing himself above less enterprising Kindred of his clan.

There was also the component of it simply being _time_. Seventy years a kindred, almost one hundred on the planet, warranted his consideration to procreate. He had not done so while human (and_** hardly**_ lamented over that) but could not deny himself a protégé forever. And coming from a weak lineage himself, he had taken the opportunity to Embrace from legitimate, well-established nobility; vicariously guaranteeing him a stronger slot within the Kindred peerage. Why a simple barony (which was his _Sire's_ anyway) when a marquisate was so much greater? Not to mention the added benefit of severing him from the malingering long-arm of Archambaud de Croÿ. Logically, Charles would have been the better pick but he would have had to wait for Louisé to be married and gone to do it successfully. Anything could have happened to Charles, or Louisé, between now and then to jeopardize his ambitious desires. Ventrue never took that chance.

Then there was the complicated issue of Louisé's appeal. Her blood was delicious, perhaps the best he had tasted outside of his herd or the boisterous generosity of flamboyant peers strutting their own wealth. She did not fit the characteristics of those in his herd, however. He gravitated toward intelligent, disciplined and tenacious Kine of society. Louisé's history was pocketed with rebellion, whining, and day dreaming…a trifecta repellant to his sensibilities, yet honey to his inner beast. She also cried more than he tolerated…_So many things to fix, _he thought. One thing he did _**not**_ have to fix was her Embrace shed the pesky pudge she acquired from sexual maturation and mourning. Additionally, redistribution of childhood fat to the lines of her hips and breasts added a certain physical appeal. He would never entertain that kind of attraction or recognize it existed for him though. There was a reason he didn't mourn never marrying or the pub-talk benefits that went along with it.

And last, but not least on his list, was the sign from the heavens. An indulgent part of himself believed his fate was shown, if not blessed, by the starry host and the night he saw them reflecting in the hue of her eyes, he _**knew**_. At the time, he didn't want to accept it because Louisé was ten and completely unappealing (save for the blood he stole in secret). Watching her slowly mature was some consolation. Her near death experience and mother's death sobered her. Anyhow, he could never explain this astrological part to her.. This was an intimate, personal consideration for her Embrace…that and for a Ventrue to believe in such superstitions would tear away at the credibility he'd spent seven decades amassing.

He looked at her bent frame and abandoned his work, "You would not yet understand my reasons, Louisé. Is this why you will not feed?"

"I hate that word…" she uncoiled and sat up.

"Drink, then. We shall say 'drink', but whatever we call it, you must do so before you get worse," he walked to the foot of the bed. The Kine had fallen asleep. Her even breathing provided filling for the silence of Louisé pause.

"What do you mean worse?" Louisé appeared frightened and concerned.

"You will lose control of yourself and turn into the monster you fear you are," he pursed his lips, "You will be a nearly uncontrollable killer. Is that what you want? To _**kill**_?" Louisé shook her head, biting the corner of her lower lip. And so he found the prod he needed to make her obey for the time being: guilt.

* * *

Louisé hated the thought of turning into something she could not imagine…capable of atrocities. At the same time, she barely stood the inferno building each moment she refused what her body _knew_ she needed. She accepted a crumb of what she had become. She moved on her hands and knees to the slumbering figure of the woman. Her tongue ran along the back of one fang, anxiety building. She looked back at Sébastien.

"What if I hurt her?"

He smiled a little, "You won't."

She sat like a cat, knees tucked beneath her as she stared at the woman. All nerves, she wasn't sure what to do first. She rolled the woman onto her back and stared down at her neck as longing built in her stomach. Her jaw waggled from side with indecision. A reassuring hand rested on the back of her neck, thumb massaging the side of her throat. Her jaw stopped.

"You know what to do. Even if you refused to watch _me_, something inside is telling you how," LaCroix encouraged, his tone one she had never heard before.

He was right. The same, small voice that told her not to look into his eyes was instructing her on how to bite this woman. A small part of her was disappointed about giving in to what he wanted from her. But she was exhausted, too exhausted to fight and too afraid of what would happen if she did. And she was _so __**hungry!**_

He did not rush her but stayed close that she might turn to his expertise if need be. Louisé lowered her head and opened her mouth, hovering less than an inch above the skin. Her mouth opened and closed a few times. Her tongue licked along her bottom lip. Out of nowhere, she made a pathetic, mewling noise. It wasn't distress or refusal, but agitation though she couldn't place what about this woman was annoying.

Without speaking, Sébastien slid his other hand beneath the woman's shoulder blades and lifted her up, seemingly understanding her better than she understood herself. She wrapped her mouth around the woman's neck and heard him chuckle. She felt the cold of his hand disappear from her neck and reposition her head with tender movements. Her fangs needed no such aid. They sunk into the warm of the woman's skin and Louisé felt heat flow into her mouth. It was delicious! It was manna from heaven…her body's respite from a desert journey. Her ears heard the woman whine, not out of pain, but it was nothing compared to the sound Louisé heard herself make.

* * *

He was prepared for the intensity of her reaction as starving as she was. What he was not expecting was the rush of pride. He was overcome with it. Watching her drink successfully left him feeling accomplished in jumping the first hurdle of her new life. Though, she did make it much more complicated than it needed to be. He stilled his hand on her neck, counting the number of swallows. He couldn't have her killing one of his herd. With subtle movements, he eased his fingers beneath her jaw and tugged her backward. He felt her cling to the skin, heard her growl at him with bloody gurgling.

"That's enough, you'll drain her dry," he added force and she came loose with a whine. He understood she was still thirsty. Six or seven swallows was far from enough to meet her needs. Sébastien had intended it that way. His plan included her drinking his blood to strengthen the natural bond between them. He didn't just want her inborn adoration, he wanted her absolute loyalty.

"I want more," her voice was ragged with need, her teeth and chin dyed red. Her tongue darted out to lap around her lips, fought to extend down to her chin.

"Then you'll have more. In a moment," he rose from the bed. He kept his eyes on Louisé, who eyed the woman like a wolf ready to pounce. He knocked on the door to alert the ghoul on the other side. The ghoul entered cautiously, collected the woman then left. Sébastien couldn't allow Kine to be present for the intimacy of this moment.

Louisé growled again, "You said I would have more!"

He smirked at her tenacity and returned to the bed, "Yes, I did." He sat and offered his wrist to her. Her nose crinkled. He watched her confusion.

"But…It's not the same. You're like me," Louisé sat back, her voice disappointed. "Bring the woman back, I want her."

He forgave her rude pickiness. He, too, would snub a cold wrist if a warm neck had just satisfied and been taken away from him. There was no heartbeat to tantalize her senses, nor pulsing veins to seduce her. All he had was the blood that bound her to him until Final Death.

"You'll have this or none at all," he lifted his wrist higher.

She looked down at the wrist then back up at his face, "Can I have your neck instead?"

Such an innocent question, from an innocent babe that meant far more than she could imagine. Necks were not asked for, they were given and he would not be giving his to anyone. He felt the muscles of his stomach tighten at the mental image. It made him sick. "No, you cannot. My wrist or nothing," his voice constricted.

She groaned, but bent her head and covered his wrist with her mouth. His stomach did not loosen, only tightened. He felt her fangs piece his skin and held back a moan. He thought of balancing accounts and adjusting numbers while her tongue flicked back and forth over the wound that oozed blood. He concentrated on the deplorable days as a priest as she sucked. Before he lost control, he tugged his wrist away.

"T-that's enough!" his body shuddered hard, throat trapping whatever unacceptable noise it wanted to make. He watched her curl into a ball like a cat with euphoric haze. At least one of them would rest peacefully during the day. "Pack your things, Louisé," he rasped. "Tomorrow, we travel to Lyon to find you someone else to drink."

* * *

He threw words at her the entire ride to Lyon. Camarilla. Ventrue. Agoge. Kine (the _new_ kind). Terms that meant nothing to her but, he promised, would very soon. He explained how she now belonged to a great and powerful clan. Louisé saw a legitimate satisfaction in LaCroix's face as he explained the exclusivity of their clan. Kings among Kindred, he said. That was the word Ventrue. That's what she was now. She wasn't just a vampire, she was _**Ventrue**_. She was also _his_. His _Childe_ and he took the time to explain this to her. The more he spoke of the clan, the less she understood until he brought up the issue of blood. Her ears perked, throat tightened.

"That is why we must go to Lyon. There will be a greater number of Kine and therefore, a greater likelihood of your finding your _choice_," he emphasized the last word with a smirk.

"My…choice? Can't I just drink from whomever I like?"

"You _could_, but you might not appreciate the results of such capricious feeding decisions."

"Drinking," she corrected him.

"Pardon?" he looked confused.

"We said we would call it drinking until I become comfortable with the other term."

She watched his eyes roll and felt a prick of anger. He tapped his knee, "You may have noticed when you _drank _earlier…the flavor of her blood was significantly less than it had been last evening. Bland. She may have been what you needed at the time, but she is far from what you _want_. That is why you cannot just drink from anyone. Not everyone will satisfy your refined, Ventrue palette."

Louisé bobbed her knees anxiously and bit the corner of her lower lip. She had to agree with him, yet again, that the woman's blood was more like lukewarm soup than the fine wine it had been the night before. "How will I know? If the woman you supplied me tasted great one evening, then plain the next…How can I be sure I'll make the right choice?"

"The reason her blood had no vintage to it is because she is what _I _prefer. Sire and Childe may be bound in many things, but for Ventrue this does not include blood preference. When you find yours, you will know. The best way I know how to explain it is an impression you will sense when around the right person."

* * *

The right person apparently hid. For nights, Sébastien walked her along the streets of Lyon in the hopes of aiding in her search, but fate was against them. He was granted permission by supportive Ventrue kin to take her throughout their domains until some Kine piqued her interest. They had no such luck. The most they accomplished was her finding a few that 'smelled good'. Since she could not starve and they had permission, he permitted she feed from _them_ in the shadows. She always parted with a half-frown. Tonight was no different.

"We will find _someone_, Louisé. A Ventrue without preference is unheard of, impossible even," he tried to comfort his flustered Childe. She stalked ahead of him, clenching and releasing fists as her side.

"Things are only impossible until they happen!" she snapped over her shoulder.

"_**Nothing**_," he picked up his pace and grabbed her elbow to stop her, "has happened. This just goes to show how selective you are. Yours is distinct and," he added a small smile to soften her demeanor, "Proof of your greater refinement compared to your peers."

"I don't _care_ about that! I care about the fact that no matter how much I give my body, it is never good enough. I am in a _constant_ state of hunger with _nothing_ to satisfy it," she tugged her arm back.

"Patience, Louisé. In all things, we Ventrue must display decorum even when nature demands we do otherwise. Consider this no more than a test of your newborn ability," his hand held her throat, thumb rubbing her jugular until a stupor glazed over her. "You need only rise above and work harder to claim what is yours."

"How am I supposed to do that when I feel so discontented?"

"Use it to fuel other things, such as study. You have quite a lot to learn after all," he guided her back to their Lyon home.

* * *

Hope springs just when people need it and answers come when they are least anxious about the outcome of the question posed. Louisé certainly wasn't expecting any answers to her current vexations. She wasn't expecting anything, what with constant disappointment. She wasn't even expecting to enjoy herself during the Toreador engagement LaCroix dragged her to. She didn't even understand what _Toreador_ meant beyond classifying another vampire clan. From the way Sébastien's face contorted when he said the word, it wasn't any good.

Louisé felt drowned beneath the yards of lavish fabric of other Kindred as the meandered about the party. Their movement created a nauseating spiral of colors, like someone taking a stain-glassed window and spinning it in their hands. The court of Burgundy had nothing on the competition these women and men engaged in with their attire. Soon, though, she became less concerned with the fashion than a subtle scent hanging in the air. So many people packed into the elegant home diminished the aroma luring Louisé from her Sire's side.

He didn't want her fraternizing too much since she was not an officially accepted member of the Ventrue clan, though the Prince of Lyon (apparently a Toreador) avidly took her admission to his Camarilla cadre. In all honesty, Sébastien was more concerned about the number of bad habits these characters could soil her with, in just a few hours, than whether she was unchallenged part of the clan. His solution: keep her by his side from the time they arrived until the time they left. When the dancing started, LaCroix tugged her close instead of allowing her to participate.

"Ventrue do not degrade themselves in public by participating in such lurid displays of indecency," he murmured in her ear with a pat to the hand, reassuring her that she was making the prudent decision in remaining by his side. In fact, when she looked around the room to distract herself from the dance she was not _allowed _to participate in, she noticed all her supposed clansmen decorating the walls. All present Ventrue seemed to have the same idea: cling properly to the outskirts of merriment and whisper scathing judgments upon participants. Louisé had other plans.

The bouquet swelled and receded as the dance progressed. She knew her Choice was mingled in the bodies of spinning Kindred and Kine. Her mouth watered and she fought to maintain the dignity her Sire and clan expected from her. As the dance concluded, she dislodged from Sébastien's grasp and disappeared into the throng of guests descending from the dance floor. He wasn't even able to scrape his nails against her fleeting hand.

It was so strong. This pull was like a rope dragging her against her will. Every step made the tang stronger, more irresistible. With manners and a tight smile, she maneuvered through the bodies between her and her Choice. Now she understood what another Ventrue had told her the evening before. The Choice was not something you could fight or dismiss. The Choice was an indisputable longing within all Ventrue, the only true solace for hunger and to not do whatever was required to take The Choice made for weak clan material. Sébastien had gone on to qualify that crumb of wisdom with his opinion that the stronger the pull, the greater the Choice which denoted a worthier member for clan Ventrue. Whatever it was, she didn't care. All she wanted was to sink her fangs into it.

Rounding a corner, Louisé left the gaiety behind her in pursuit of this person. She was maddened with hunger, struggled to maintain an appropriate pace. Ahead of her, she heard comforting talk and two sets of footprints disappear. She stopped outside a room, the scent disappearing behind the door. There was a rage. Someone else was taking _her_ Choice and she wouldn't have it. Her mind went foggy with red. She heard LaCroix's terse voice hissing her name from down the corridor, his boots cracking against stone. Louisé looked at him but deliberately ignored his demands and entered the room.

A fellow Kindred looked up at her with his handsome face soured by his glare. She pegged him for one of these _Toreadors_ by his flamboyant outfit. Frankly, she didn't give a damn! She wanted him away from the older woman he'd draped against a couch arm. Her senses were invaded by the woman's aroma…or rather the aroma of her blood just beneath the fragile veneer of skin this competitor threatened to pierce.

"Pardon me, _friend_, but you're interrupting," he flashed a charming smile, "I forgive you, though. You seem confused about where you are. The celebration is down the-"

"Get off of her," Louisé took a brazen step forward. Behind her, the door open and she smelled LaCroix's scent. It was angry, but so was she.

"Forgive her, she hasn't fed properly this evening," Sébastien's fingers seized her wrist but she did not budge.

Louisé stared into the Toreador's eyes. He stared back, nose upturned in insult. Somewhere deep down inside Louisé there stirred a force demanding its way. Whatever this force was, it surged up through her chest and burned her eyes. Her voice was strong and uncompromising, "_**Get out. Forget this woman and find another**_."

Just like that, the burning disappeared. It took with it Louisé's remaining resolve. LaCroix had frozen just behind her. The Toreador's demeanor transformed. He appeared to stiffen, his gaze become distant and he moved like a wooden puppet. He left the woman where she draped and stood. When he answered, his voice was dreamy, "I will get out and find another." He strode from the room after that and Louisé broke Sébastien's hold to settle over the woman.

"Do you even realize what you just did?!" her Sire looked at her, but his voice was not angry as it had been in the hallway. There was a pride in his tone which tingled her insides.

"No, and I don't care. I'm assured you will explain it to me later," Louisé smiled down at the woman, stroking her face with tenderness. She was already subdued and offering neck, saving Louisé time. Without another thought, her mouth descended and sunk its fangs into the welcoming skin.


End file.
